THE  FAMOUS  TRAMP 


WHO 
TRAVELED 


MtLES 
FOR 


I ' 


y 


— = —  by 

THE  FAMOUS  TRAMP 

Written  By  Himself  From  Personal 

Experiences 

_ _  i 

SUITABLE  READING  FOR  YOUNG  AND  OLD 


'  FIFTH  EDITION 

\ 

.^1' 

’  Copyright  1948 

By 

THE  A-No.l  PUBLISHING  Ca 

Anaabject  matter,  as  well  as  all  Illustrations,  and  especially  the  title  of  .this  t>ook,«Mi 
fully  protected  by  copyrights,  and  their  use  In  any  form  whatsoever,  will  be 
vigorously  prosecuted  for  Infringement. 


1 


I 


A  List  of  the  Books 
ON  Tramp  Life 


WHITTEN 

BY 


THE  THAMP 
AUTHOR 


THE  FIRST  BOOK 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  A-No.  1 


THE  SECOND  BOOK 

HOBO-CAMP-FIRE-TALES 


THE  THIRD  BOOK 

THE  CURSE  OF  TRAMP  LIFE 


THE  FOURTH  BOOK 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  TRAMP 


THE  FIFTH  BOOK 

THE  ADVENTURES  OP  A  FEMALE  TRAMP 

0 

THE  SIXTH  BOOK 

THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HOBO 


THE  SEVENTH  BOOK 

THE  SNARE  OF  THE  ROAD 


THE  EIGHTH  BOOK 

FROM  COAST  TO  COAST  WITH  JACK  LONDON 


THE  NINTH  BOOK 

THJg  1K)THER  OF  THE  HOBOES 


THE  TENTH  BOOK 

THE  WIFE  I  WON 


awjded  the  least  ot  anythia*  that 

would  bo  unfit  reeding  for  ladies  oaf  chndreh, 

^  *e”ery^*home  **  moral  and  entertaining  books  should  be  in 


f 

X^erell  he  man^  to  mock  ami  to  rail  you, 
^^Chere'll  he  many  to  tell  you  ’tis  vain, 

^hey^ll  tell  you  of  dangers  that  lurk  to  assail  you, 
l^hat  success  you  cannot  attain. 

Persevere,  ‘Persevere,  and  accomplish  your  tasks 
‘Uhe  worthy  work  youve  begun, 
y  Your  labor  will  reap  its  due  reward 

find  the  race  towards  the  goal  will  he  won. 

□  □□ 

□ 

□ 


To  A-No.  1 

by 

Harold  Sherman,  SB  I  / 
School  ihCo.  62,  S^ew  York  Cits 


to  Resdess  Young  Men  and  Boys 

Who  Read  this  Book,  the  Author,  who  Has 
Led  for  Over  a  Quarter  of  a  Century  the 
Pitiful  and  Dangerous  Life  of  a  Tramp, 
gives  this  Well-Meant  Advice: 

DO  NOT 


I  Jump  on  Moving  Trains  or  Street  Cars,  even  if 
only  to  ride  to  the  next  street  crossing,  be¬ 
cause  this  might  arouse  the  “Wanderlust,** 
besides  endangering  needlessly 
your  life  and  limbs. 


»j 


Wandering,  once  it  becomes  a  habit,  is  almost 
incurable,  so  NEVER  RUN  AWAY,  but  STAY 
AT  HOME,  as  a  roving  lad  usually  ends  in  becom¬ 
ing  a  confirmed  tramp. 

There  is  a  dark  side  to  a  tramp's  life:  for 
every  mile  stolen  on  trains,  there  is  one  escape 
from  a  horrible  death ;  for  each  mile  of  beautiful 
scenery  and  food  in  plenty,  there  are  many  weary  | 
miles  of  hard  walking  with  no  food  or  even  water  | 
through  mountain  gorges  and  over  parched  des-  | 
erts;  for  each  warm  summer  night,  there  are  ten  I 
bitter-cold,  long  winter  nights;  for  every  kindness, 
there  are  a  score  of  unfriendly  acts. 

A  tramp  is  constantly  hounded  by  the  minions 
of  the  law ;  is  shunned  by  all  humanity,  and  never 
knows  the  meaning  of  home  and  friends. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  “Road”  is  a  pitiful  exist-  ' 
ence  all  the  way  through,  and  what  is  the  end?  I 

It  is  an  evep  ninety-nine  chances  out  of  a  | 
hundred  that  the  finish  will  be  a  miserable  one  —  an  1 
accident,  an  alms-house,  but  surely  an  u»-mark©d  I 
pauper’s  grave,  I 


m 


PREFACE 


The  Pennsylvania  System,  with  lines  comprising 
only  a  thirtieth  part  of  the  railroad  mileage  of 
the  United  States  and  Canada,  returned  more 
than  four  thousand  runaway  boys  to  their  parents 
and  sent  to  prison  eight  hundred  and  sixteen  uncouth 
hoboes  who  had  minors  for  traveling  companions,  during 
the  twelve  months  of  nineteen  hundred  and  fifteen. 

The  other  day  I  stood  by  a  railroad  track  while  a 
freight  train  passed.  Aboard  the  cars  I  counted  forty-two 
trespassers,  twenty-nine  of  whom  were  lads,  many  still  in 
their  short  trousers. 

This  incident  incited  me  to  search  for  the  motive  of 
lads  who  perhaps  otherwise  were  endowed  with  a  normal 
mentality,  thoughtlessly  runnning  the  great  risk  of  finishing 
their  days  as  confirmed  vagabonds,  while  other  youths 
displayed  absolutely  no  hankering  for  the  cars.  I  firmly 
believe  that  my  thorough  investigation  resulted  in  the 
discovery  of  the  keynote  of  the  tramp  problem  insofar  as 
this  vexatious  question  deals  with  illegal  train  riding,  the 
root  of  the  hobo  evil. 

With  rare  exception,  every  hobo  I  interviewed  proved 
to  be  the  offspring  of  parents  who,  fortunately,  having 
themselves  escaped  in  their  youth  the  tempting  urgings  of 
the  wanderlust,  had  allowed  their  son  to  remain  m  ignorance 
concerning  everything  connected  with  the  hard  existence 
led  by  the  roving  beggars,  entirely  trusting  on  Providence 
to  protect  the  boy  from  his  worst  enemy,  the  Road. 

A  merciless  propaganda  of  all  their  malign  attributes 
has  lately  put  various  vicious  habits  to  rout  after  an  un¬ 
disputed  reign  of  centuries  in  the  course  of  which  every 
discouraging  detail  of  their  harmfulness  was  conscientiously 
withheld  from  the  knowledge  of  the  younger  generations 
with  the  logical  sequence  that  it  was  a  most  commonplace 
occurrence  to  meet  minors  who  had  become  their  prey. 

By  applying  this  modern  redress  against  the  Road,  I 
aim  to  conquer  a  curse  that  has  taken  a  most  fearsome 
tribute  from  the  youth  of  the  land. 


THE  AUTHOR. 


Contents 


Chapter  Page 

I  An  Ounce  of  Prevention  is  Worth  a 

Pound  of  Cure  .  5 

II  To  Live  is  to  Learn  . .  15 

III  Lights  and  Shadows  of  the  Road .  65 

IV  How  the  State  of  Georgia  Solved  the 

Tramp  Problem  .  88 

V  The  Call  of  the  Road .  93 

VI  Conclusions  .  ,126 


Introductory 


“An  Ounce  of  Prevention  is  Worth  a  Pound  of  Cure.” 

PITIABLE  indeed  ~is  the  lot  of  parents,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Ridder,”  confided  Mrs.  Davis  over  the  back 
yard  fence  to  her  neighbor,  “who  have  slaved  as 
many  years  as  we  have  to  respectably  bring  up  their  children 
and  then  are  forced  to  admit  that  their  devotion  is  about 
to  be  rewarded  with  basest  disappointment  by  one  of  their 
offspring. 

“It’s  Gerald,  our  firstborn,  of  whom  I  am  complain¬ 
ing,  and  who  since  the  return  to  town  of  Bert  Coleman  from 
his  annual  hobo  trip  to  the  western  harvest  fields,  has 
become  almost  unmanageable  although  heretofore  he  has 
been  a  most  tractable  lad.  It  seems  as  if  the  burly  never-do 
well  has  made  it  an  obligation  to  poison  the  receptive  minds 
of  youngsters  whose  parents  reside  in  this  neighborhood 
with  garbled  accounts  of  the  disgusting  beggar  life  he  led 
during  his  absence. 

“Time  and  again,  Mr.  Davis  and  I  have  warned  our 
son  when  he  chanced  to  repeat  some  of  the  crazy  fables  he 
had  heard  Coleman  relate  as  having  happened  while  he  was 
hoboing  box  cars,  that  the  unprincipled  rascal  had  carefully 
refrained  from  making  the  least  mention  of  the  numerous 
revolting  items  which  beset  the  path  of  the  hoboes  and 
concerning  which  we  elders  have  read  articles  without 
number  in  the  dailies  and  the  magazines,  and  which  stories, 
at  that,  dared  to  describe  only  those  of  the  ugly  truths 
which  were  printable. 

“The  shameless  scamp,  for  instance,  never  breathed  a 
word  that  while  en  route  he  had  associated  on  terms  of 
equality  with  some  of  the  foulest  dregs  of  humanity;  had 
suffered  from  the  pangs  of  hunger  whenever  he  had  failed 
to  connect  by  means  of  scurvy  lies  with  the  unsavory  leav* 


6 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


ings  from  the  tables  of  honest  folks;  had  been  continually 
harrassed  and  in  all  probability  sent  to  prison  by  the  police ; 
had  made  while  trespassing  a  ghastly  joke  of  the  ever¬ 
present  peril  of  finishing  his  days  as  a  miserably  deformed 
cripple,  and  had  foolishly  and  wilfully  exposed  himself  to 
the  endless  number  of  other  hazards  and  privations  which 
are  the  sole  reward  of  those  who  lack  the  will  power  to 
resist  the  lure  of  the  Road.  (See  illustration,  page  41.) 

“Almost  uncanny  is  the  influence  for  evil  that  the 
scoundrel  has  attained  over  our  poor  boy,”  sighed  the 
unfortunate  mother.  ^‘Only  this  afternoon  I  received  a 
further  confirmation  of  the  great  misfortune  that  has  so 
unexpectedly  overwhelmed  our  family  circle,  heretofore 
such  a  happy  one.  I  took  Gerald  to  task  for  neglecting  his 
regular  school  lessons  for  a  study  of  maps  and  railroad 
time  tables.  Instead  of  accepting  with  respect  the  richly 
deserved  reprimand,  he  flew  into  a  towering  rage  and  dared 
to  threaten  me,  his  mother  who  has  guarded  him  against 
harm  all  his  days,  that  if  his  father  and  I  did  not  allow  him 
to  do  exactly  as  he  pleased,  one  of  these  fine  mornings  we 
would  find  his  bed  had  not  been  occupied  during  the  pre¬ 
ceding  night  and  he  had  forever  disappeared.” 

“A  stitch  at  the  proper  time  would  now  save 
you  nine,  my  dear  Mrs.  Davis,”  interjected  Mrs.  Ridder, 
instead  of  expressing  sympathy  with  her  neighbor  in  her 
tribulations. 

“Pray  tell  me  how  to  make  this  ancient  saying  fit 
,  the  trouble  we  are  having  with  our  son?”  quizzed  the 
ious  mother.  ^  . 

“Mr.  Ridder  and  I  spared  no  pains  to  thorou^y 
acquaint  our  boys  at  an  early  age  with  every  pitfall  of  the 
underworld  and  so  quenched  every  desire  that  might  have 
tempted  them  in  later  years  to  lead  the  life  of  outcasts,” 
explained  Mrs.  Ridder  who  had  raised  three  sturdy  sons 
to  successful  manhood.  “By  employing  this  simple  pre¬ 
ventive  we  fortified  our  lads  with  a  safeguard  that  practical 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


7 


tests  amply  demonstrated  to  be  an  unsurmountable  obstacle 
against  the  designs  of  scoundrels  of  the  class  you  mentioned.” 

”As  it  is  too  late  to  recant  sins  of  omission  can  you 
suggest  some  other  remedy?”  pleaded  Mrs.  Davis. 

“Have  your  husband  call  at  police  headquarters  and 
there  register  a  complaint  against  the  fellow  who  is  trying 
to  despoil  your  home,”  advanced  Mrs.  Ridder,  believing 
•he  had  found  an  effective  means  to  silence  the  tempter. 


The  ladiea  exchanged  confidences  over  their  backyard  fence. 


“Mr.  Davis  has  been  to  see  the  chief,”  she  was  in¬ 
formed,  “but  the  sum  of  the  comfort  he  received  amounted 
to  a  terse  statement  that  as  long  as  Coleman  did  not  commit 
a  more  serious  offense  than  the  doping  of  guileless  youths 
with  faked  adventure  tales,  he  had  not  laid  himself  liable 
to  interference  by  the  authorities.” 

“Why  not  make  it  impossible  for  your  Gerald  to  as¬ 
sociate  with  the  deceiver?”  proposed  Mrs.  Ridder,  undaunt- 
^  by  her  previous  defeats. 


8 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“Since  we  became  aware  that  our  son  was  among  the 
youths  who  almost  nightly  were  the  rascal’s  eager  pupils, 
we  have  vainly  tried  to  dissuade  Gerald  and  those  of  his 
chums  we  thought  could  be  influenced  for  the  better,  from 
attending  these  meetings,”  reported  Mrs.  Davis.  “We  are 
daily  receiving  new  evidence  how  deeply  the  teachings  of 
the  scamp  have  undermined  the  resistance  to  evil  of  these 
lads  by  the  stubborn  refusal  of  our  own  boy  to  listen  to 
reason,  not  even  when  his  father  had  frequently  chastised 
him  for  his  disobedience.” 

This  statement  must  have  acted  as  a  damper  over 
Mrs.  Ridder’s  concern  in  the  family  affairs  of  her  neighbor 
for  a  prolonged  pause  ensued  which  was  only  terminated 
when  Mrs.  Davis  re-introduced  the  topic  they  had  discussed 
by  saying:  “Heretofore  our  eldest  had  never  taken  the 
slightest  interest  in  the  wayfarers  who  came  to  our  home  to  , 
ply  their  trade.  In  fact,  so  pronounced  was  his  aversion 
towards  vagrants  that  when  last  fall  a  hobo  I  had  treated 
especially  vrell  proved  the  spirit  of  his  gratitude  by  chalk¬ 
ing  an  ‘easy  mark’  on  our  garden  gate  and  as  a  sequence 
our  residence  became  almost  overnight  the  goal  of  every 
Wandering  Willie,  it  was  our  Gerald  who  first  suggested 
the  purchase  of  a  watchdog  as  a  counteractive  of  the  land¬ 
wide  advertising  my  charitable  kindness  had  doubtlessly 
received, 

“Nowadays  the  story  is  one  of  a  quite  different  tenor. 
The  death  of  the  dog  by  poison  we  are  laying  to  the  door 
of  Gerald  who  seems  to  have  made  it  his  business  to  look 
after  the  wants  of  every  tramp  calling  at  our  home.  Last 
week  he  gave  to  an  unusually  repulsive  hobo  the  only  pair 
of  shoes  he  possessed  except  those  he  wears  at  present. 
Furthermore,  Mr.  Davis  and  I  have  to  be  constantly  on 
guard  to  avert  his  indulging  in  his  latest  favorite  pastime, 
which  is  the  interviewing  of  vagabonds  on  their  method  of 
getting  through  the  world.” 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


“If  I  were  placed  in  your  predicament,  I  would  take 
fullest  advantage  of  the  failing  you  mentioned  last,  Mm. 
Davis,”  said  Mrs.  Ridder,  interrupting  the  lamentations  of 
her  friend,  “by  inducing  every  tramp  I  feed  at  my  door 
to  relate  while  the  wayward  youth  is  present,  details  of  the 
actual  conditions  under  which  hoboes  are  compelled  to 
satisfy  their  roving  mania.  I  feel  assured  that  the  stories  told 
by  the  tramps  will  amply  supplement  the  one-sided  accounts 
the  boy  has  previously  heard,  and  in  all  probability  will 
drive  from  his  mind  the  Lunatic  notion  that  he  must  re¬ 
enact  the  lawless  undertakings  of  his  unscrupulous  teacher.” 

“I  shall  repeat  your  instructions  to  my  husband,” 
promised  Mrs.  Davis,  “and  if  your  theory  in  practice  proves 
the  salvation  of  our  deluded  boy,  his  heart-broken  parents 
will  ever  remember  the.  one  who  rendered  them  a  timely 
service.” 

Bidding  farewell  to  her  neighbor,  Mrs.  Davis  returned 
to  her  own  residence.  Finding  her  husband  who  had  come 
home  for  his  supper,  alone  in  the  parlor,  she  gave  him  a 
hasty  outline  of  the  counsel  she  had  received. 

“The  clever  suggestion  of  shrewd  Mrs.  Ridder  sounds 
most  promising,  my  dear,”  commented  Mr.  Davis  when  he 
had  listened  to  his  wife’s  explanations.  “Her  idea  follows 
in  general  aspects  the  modern  method  of  combating  vices 
by  freely  providing  the  younger  generations  with  detailed 
accounts  of  their  attributes,  a  precaution  which  had  always 
stood  the  test  when  temptation  seeks  to  add  new  victims 
to  the  millions  of  uninstructed  humans  which  these  vices 
drag  to  disgraceful  and  premature  graves.” 

Then  Gerald’s  parents  set  to  task  to  devise  means  to 
properly  enact  the  novel  scheme.  As  Mrs.  Davis  greatly 
disliked  to  bother  with  strangers  who  came  begging  at  the 
door  during,  the  absence  of  her  husband  at  his  place  of 
business,  it  was  decided  to  direct  all  tramps  calling  during 
the  day,  to  return  in  the  evening  at  an  hour  Mr.  Davis  was 
sure  to  be  at  home. 


10 


The  Snare  ef  the  Road. 


t 


Heretofore  it  had  been  a  daily  happening  for  vagrants 
belonging  to  every  caste  of  vagabondage  to  stop  at  the 
Davis  residence,  but  now  since  to  their  kind  would  have 
been  accorded  a  responsive  reception,  a  week  went  by  ere 
a  tramp  put  in  an  appearance.  He  begged  to  be  given  a 
lunch  and  was  told  by  the  mistress  of  the  house  that  he 
would  be  welcome  to  his  supper  if  he  returned  at  the  hour 
of  the  evening  meal. 

Mr.  Davis  had  arrived  home  and  was  looking  through 
the  newspapers  when  he  was  apprised  of  the  return  of  the 
wanderer.  Leaving  the  library  he  went  to  the  kitchen 
entrance  to  size  up  the  fellow.  Noting  that  the  visitor 
bore  the  telltale  earmarks  of  the  professional  hobo,  he 
decided  to  make  his  acquaintance. 

Friendly  greeting  the  mendicant,  Mr.  Davis  remarks! : 
"I  came  to  inform  you  that  we  will  provide  you  with  a 
supper  while  our  family  partakes  of  the  evening  meal.” 

“I  am  in  no  particular  hurry,  sir!”  grinned  the  vagrant- 
ing  stranger,  expressing  a  willingness  to  practice  patience. 

“Would  you  like  to  earn  a  dollar  when  you  have  finished 
lunching,  sir?”  inquired  Mr.  Davis,  believing  that  perhaps 
the  caller  had  encountered  experiences  of  the  kind  desirable 
for  his  son  to  hear.* 

“I  haven’t  done  a  lick  of  work  in  all  my  days!”  pro¬ 
tested  the  able-bodied  beggar  in  whose  face  became  visible 
an  expression  of  abject  horror.  Then  aware  that  he  had 
allowed  his  tongue  to  reveal  his  innermost  thoughts,  he 
quickly  corrected,  “That  is,  after  the  regular  working 
hours.” 

“I  thoroughly  appreciate  your  natural  aversion,” 
laughed  Mr.  Davis  who  surmised  that  the  indolent  vaga¬ 
bond  feared  to  violate  the  anti-work  pledge  sacred  to  hobo- 
dom.  “I  didn’t  refer  to  a  manual  task  but  merely  desired 
to  engage  your  services  to  entertain  my  family  in  our  parlor 
with  a  recountal  of  lome  of  your  hobo  experienoes.” 


The  Snare  ef  the  Road. 


11 


*‘I’ve  never  done  no  tramping,  sir!”  averred  the  wary 
fellow,  evidently  suspecting  a  trap  to  at  the  bottom  of  a 
proposal  so  singular. 

“Once  upon  a  time  I  was  a  homeless  hobo  myself,  sir,” 
cajoled  Mr.  Davis,  ignoring  the  latest  assertion  of  his 
visitor.  “The  job  I  made  of  box  car  bumming  proved  so 
eventless  that  now  when  the  members  of  my  family  almost 
worry  me  to  detraction  by  persisting  that  I  give  them  an 


“You  won’t  have  to  break  your  anti- work  pledge, ” 
Mr.  Davis  told  the  tramp. 


unvarnished  account  of  my  adventures,  I  am  searching  for 
a  substitute  to  whom,  for  taking  this  easy  task  off  my  hands, 
I  am  willing  to  pay  the  ample  fee  I  mentioned.” 

When  the  rover  maintained  a  sullen  silence,  the  gentle¬ 
man  drawled:  “Of  course,  if  you  are  not  qualified  to  accept 
my  proposition,  perhaps  the  next  stranger  entering  our 
gate  may  turn  out  to  be  just  the  chap  I  have  been  wanting.” 


13 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“Did  you  say  that  you,  too,  had  been  chased  from 
pillar  to  post  by  the  promptings  of  the  wanderlust,  sir?” 
reviewed  the  tramp,  whose  undivided  attention  had  been 
held  by  this,  to  him,  most  noteworthy  item. 

“If  otherwise,  would  I  care  to  publicly  parade  such  an 
admission?”  countered  Mr.  Davis  who,  for  the  sake  of 
saving  his  eldest  from  the  abyss  of  the  Road,  had  resort^ 
to  the  use  of  a  pardonable  subterfuge  as  a  means  to  gain 
the  more  readily  the  confidence  of  the  box  car  tourist. 

“One  of  the  profesh?  A  reg’lar  blown-in-the-glass 
stiff?”  gurgled  the  hobo  over  whose  countenance  had  spread 
a  malevolent  grin  when  the  gentleman  nodded  his  head  in 
affirmation  of  his  statement. 

“If  that’s  the  case,  I  won’t  mind  helping  you  out  of  a 
bad  fix,  though  I  shan’t  promise  a  satisfactory  job,”  csmt 
the  acceptance  of  the.  offered  terms  by  him  who  had  tried 
to  pass  himself  as  a  bonafide  out-of-work,  a  deception 
commonly  practiced  by  professional  beggars. 

Having  accomplished  his  mission,  Mr.  Davis  left  the 
tramp.  Passing  through  the  kitchen  he  gave  orders  that 
the  fellow  be  furnished  with  an  ample  repast.  Then  he 
returned  to  the  library  where  he  resumed  his  interrupted 
study  of  the  news  columns. 


I  HAVE  engaged  the  tramp  who  is  eating  his  supper 
upon  our  kitchen  stoop  to  lecture  to  us  this  evening 
in  the  parlor  on  the  lawless  existence  he  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  other  vagabonds  are  voluntarily  leading,” 
announced  Mr.  Davis  at  the  supper  table. 

“You  have?”  ejaculated  Gerald  who  was  completely 
taken  aback  to  hear  his  father  state  he  had  favored  with 
attention  cme  of  a  class  he  heretofore  had  cordially  despised. 

“I  engaged  his  services  for  your  especial  benefit,  sh,” 
snarled  the  elder  Davis,  addressing  his  firstborn,  “and  I 


The  Smre  of  the  Road. 


13 


bear  hopes  that  the  revelations  you  will  hear  this  genuine 
tramp  make,  will  spoil  the  yarns  Bert  Coleman,  your  bosom 
friend,  has  made  you  believe  were  truths.” 

Fearing  that  the  argument  would  lead  to  another 
heated  controversy,  Mrs.  Davis  here  wisely  turned  the 
general  conversation  to  a  less  touchy  topic. 

The  parlor  was  arranged  after  supper  to  properly 
stage  the  entertainment.  When  the  members  of  the  house¬ 
hold  had  taken  chairs,  Mr.  Davis  led  his  guest  into  the  room, 
introduced  the  stranger,  and  then  invited  him  to  open  his 
engagement. 

'T  ain’t  a  spellbinder,  gents,”  stammered  the  fellow 
on  finding  himself  attacked  by  stage  fright. 

‘'Be  at  your  ease,  my  good  man,”  cautioned  Mr. 
Davis  .when  he  noted  the  embarrassment.  “We  shall 
appreciate  anything  you  may  wish  to  narrate,  provided 
you  confine  your  theme  and  language  within  the  bounds  of 
truth  and  strictest  decency.” 

These  words  of  encouragement  worked  wonders  in 
restoring  the  confidence  of  the  hobo.  Finding  himself  at  a 
loss  to  select  a  suitable  theme  on  which  to  base  a  discourse 
of  the  desired  character,  he  turned  to  his  auditors  for  in¬ 
structions. 

“Tell  us  of  your  latest  encounters  with  those  who 
represent  law  and  order,  sir,”  suggested  the  lady  of  the 
house  when  none  else  advanced  a  subject. 

“That  sort  of  talk  wouldn’t  prove  a  bit  interesting, 
marmi”  complained  the  vagrant,  ‘'as  it  would  start  off 
with  getting  tangled  up  with  a  police  officer  and  always  end 
with  stating  the  length  of  the  prison  term  I  wa*  made  to 
serve  to  square  my  account  with  the  law.” 

“Won’t  you  tell  us  how  you  came  to  be  a  tramp?” 
chimed  Gerald  Davis,  who  was  obviously  actuated  into 
brmching  this  t«xt  by  a  covert  wish  that  the  hobo  would 
reveal  pointers  w^orth  while  remembering. 


14 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


“This  would  provide  nifty  dope  on  which  to  base  a 
lecture,  sir,”  replied  the  traveler,  and  when  Mr.  Davis 
approved  of  the  theme,  the  rover  began  to  state  the  causes 
underlying  his  fall  from  the  ranks  of  civilized  life. 

The  discourse  was  marred  in  the  beginning  by  the 
pronounced  timidity  of  the  speaker'and  his  lack  of  training 
in  even  the  simplest  of  rules  governing  oratory.  However, 
as  he  advanced  in  the  delivery  of  his  lecture,  he  counter¬ 
acted  these  shortcomings  by  a  display  of  profound  fervor. 
In  the  end  the  pitiful  word  picture  he  drew  while  he  decried 
the  Road  as  a  destroyer  of  everything  good  and  noble  in 
humans,  aroused  to  such  a  degree  the  interest  of  those  who 
heard  his  story,  that  as  if  spellbound  they  focussed  their 
attention  on  the  tramp  who  had  come  into  the  privacy  of 
their  home  under  auspices  so  strange. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


15 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  THE  FIRST  TRAMP. 


“To  Live  is  to  Leam.” 


Many  years  have  passed  since  I  heard  from  the  folks 
I  left  behind  when  I  ran  away  from  my  home. 
Nevertheless,  if  my  father  is  alive,  I  am  quite 
positive  he  still  is  the  owner  of  a  cotton  plantation  that  in 
days  of  my  boyhood  was  rated  to  be  one  of  the  most  pro¬ 
ductive  and  best  managed  to  be  found  anywhere  in  the 
State  of  Arkansas. 

The  respectability  of  my  family  is  best  attested  by  the 
statement  that  for  many  generations  its  members  had  been 
received  as  social  equals  by  the  wealthiest  of  the  land  aristo¬ 
crats  whose  colossal  estates  were  scattered  throughout  our 
district. 

Bearing  these  items  in  mind,  you  should  be  all  the 
more  shocked  to  hear  me  state  that  I  fell  a  prey  to  the  Road 
when  I  was  but  a  mere  slip  of  a  lad.  To  this  day  I  blame 
the  agent  who  had  charge  of  the  railroad  station  in  a 
village  near  which  our  plantation  was  located  for  my  misfor¬ 
tunes.  To  aid  in  dispelling  the  soul  harrying  monotony 
that  in  my  youth  was  the  bane  of  rural  life,  the  younger 
sons  of  families  residing  in  the  environs  of  the  village  had 
made  their  meeting  place  at  the  railroad  depot  for  the  want 
of  a  more  conveniently  located  spot.  To  this  misuse  of  the 
premises  the  agent  only  offered  objections  when  the  racket 
we  raised  chasing  each  other  over  the  platform  or  through 
the  waiting  and  baggage  rooms  interfered  with  his  duties. 
He  either  had  no  conception  of  the  dire  sequences  of  this 
failure  on  his  part  or,  and  this  was  the  more  likely,  he 
wished  to  avoid  having  friction  with  the  patrons  of  the 
company  he  otherwise  served  so  faithfully. 

As  could  have  been  expected  from  a  gang  of  idling 
youths  who  had  been  allowed  to  congregate  near  a  railroad 


16 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


track,  we  learned  to  jump  aboard  moving  cars.  We  con¬ 
tinued  this  perilous  diversion  even  when  several  lads  had 
to  hobble  through  life  on  wooden  pegs  and  artificial  legs. 

Discounting  commercial  travelers  and  occasional  visi¬ 
tors  with  local  residents,  strangers  rarely  ever  stopped  at 
our  village.  To  this  lack  of  newcomers  no  doubt  was  due 
a  habit  into  which  we  lads  had  drifted  unawares.  When¬ 
ever  a  train  halted  at  the  station,  we  searched  the  cars  for 
trespassers.  We  visited  with  those  of  the  ticketless  tourists 
who  bade  us  welcome,  others  who  resented  our  inquisitive 
prying  into  private  affairs,  we  roughly  routed  from  their 
hiding  places  and  then  hot-footed  them  to  the  boundaries 
of  the  village. 

In  the  intervals  between  train  hopping,  car  searching 
anci  hobo  chasing  we  played  mischievous  tricks  to  the  dis- 
comforture  of  peaceable  folks.  Continued  immunity  from 
interference  led  us  on,  until  in  the  course  of  the  summer 
vacation,  we  committed  a  misdeed  of  such  an  ugfy  character 
that  when  we  found  ourselves  discovered  we  realized  severe 
chastisement  would  be  our  lot  when  the  details  of  the 
affair  was  brought  to  the  attention  of  our  parents. 

While  we  were  discussing  the  expected  outcome  of  the 
transgression,  our  leader  proposed  that  we  avoid  facing 
our  elders  in  their  wrath  by  imitating  the  evil  example  of 
the  wandering  hoboes  and  travel  in  freight  cars  to  a  nearby 
city,  where,  so  he  assured  us,  we  would  easily  find  employ- 
rnent.  When  the  outburst  of  jxjpular  and  parental  indigna¬ 
tion  had  time  to  calm,  we  were  to  return  and  humbly  plead 
to  be  forgiven. 


Moral  cowards  which  we  proved  ourselves  to  be  by 
this  thoughtless  decision,  we  accepted  this  plan,  one  that 
was  to  prove  the  more  ill-starred  for  even  wliile  we  were 
busily  plotting  along  rolled  a  freight  train  that  for  some 
reason  chanced  to  be  running  at  a  very  low  rate  of  speed. 

When  we  espied  an  empty  box  car,  our  tempter  sprang 
to  his  feet,  shouted,  “Follow  your  leader,  lads!”  and  ran 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


17 


to  the  side  of  the  train.  Unmindful  of  the  fact  that  we 
were  almost  penniless,  we  took  after  him,  climbed  aboard 
the  open  freight  car  and  were  on  our  way  to  the  city. 

Arriving  at  our  destination,  we  ran  into  our  first  re¬ 
verses.  Any  number  of  jobs  were  to  be  had,  but  none  paid 
sufficient  stipend  to  meet  living  expenses,  not  even  under 
the  stress  of  strictest  economy. 


Buoyed  by  a  hope  that  somewhere  else  we  would  meet 
with  better  success,  we  resumed  our  box  car  journeying. 
Net  only  was  our  quest  again  rewarded  with  ‘disappoint¬ 
ment,  but  while  en  route  we  were  so  often  chased  by  rail¬ 
road  special  agents  that  now  and  anon  one  of  our  gang  wais 
captured.  Others  who  previously  had  acted  decidedly 
homesick  took  French  leave  when  our  last  penny  had  been 
used  to  purchase  a  loaf  of  stale  br^d,  as  they  preferred  to 
brave  the  ordeal  awaiting  them  on  arrival  at  home  to  the 


18 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


eating  of  unsavory  “trimmings”  from  the  tables  of  strangers, 
and  other  hobo  dainties  beyond  the  appreciation  of  their 
palates. 

We  had  hoboed  to  Colorado  and  our  original  crowd 
had  dwindled  to  three  runaways,  when  we  encountered  a 
tramp  whose  sloven  and  slouchy  appearance  drew  from  us 
the  frank  admission  that  of  all  repellant  specimen^  of 
humans  we  had  met  in  our  day,  this  fellow  took  the  palm 
as  the  rags  he  wore  were  in  an  indescribable  state  of  decay 
and  rum  had  beastified  his  features. 

Grossly  handicapped  as  was  the  repulsive  beggar,  he 
contrived  to  strike  up  a  conversation  with  us  well-bred 
chaps.  This  led  to  an  acquaintance,  for  so  swift  is  the 
downward  grind  of  the  Road  that  it  quickly  obliterates 
every  conception  of  racial  and  social  distinctions  of  which 
change  a  best  proof  is  the  commonplace  occurence  of  meeting 
white  and  colored,  cleanly  and  ragged,  harmless  and 
criminally  inclined,  and  other  mismatched  combinations  of 
hobo  mates  traveling  over  the  land  in  peaceful  comradeship. 
Seizing  the  favorable  opportunity  when  my  companions 
were  absent  on  errands  he  had  given  them  to  run,  the  un¬ 
gainly  scoundrel  wheedled  from  guileless  me  the  history  of 
our  escapade. 

“Although  you’re  more  than  five  hundred  miles  from 
Arkansas,  kid,”  commented  the  squalid  vagabond  when  he 
had  attentively  listened  through  the  account  of  our  ex¬ 
periences,  “I  am  willing  to  bet  ’most  anything  that  at  this 
moment  your  mother  is  standing  by  the  garden  gate  looking 
to  see  if,  perhaps,  for  her  sake,  you’re  coming  home.” 

“I  have  of  late  been  thinking  that  myself,  sir,”  I 
meekly  confessed  while  tears  began  to  well  into  my  eyes  for 
the  words  of  the  uncouth  tramp  had  struck  a  tender  chord 
of  my  soul  as  no  boy  could  have  possibly  loved  his  mother 
better  than  I  did,  and  especially  was  this  the  case  since  I 
left  her  care. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


19 


“When  you  feel  as  mushy  as  all  that,  it’s  high  time 
for  you  to  sneak  back  where  you  belong,  sonny,”  gently 
urged  the  loathsome  vagrant,  “and  as  by  lucky  chance  I 
happen  to  travel  straight  from  here  to  Arkansas,  what’s 
the  matter  letting  me  pilot  you  to  your  folks?” 

“Will  you  take  home  the  three  of  us?”  I  asked,  aware 
that  my  chums  were  even  more  disgusted  than  I  as¬ 
suredly  was  with  the  beggar  existence  we  were  leading. 

The  foul  outcast  refused  to  include  my  travel  mates 
in  his  offer  as  he  deemed  it  to  be  too  risky  for  so  many  to 
travel  in^company,  and  when  I  resented  his  intimation  that 
I  desert  my  friends,  he  sullenly  walked  away. 

Less  than  five  minutes  after  he  had  taken  his  departure, 
r  saw  the  Weary  Willie  coming  back  on  a  run  to  where  I 
was  waiting  on  the  return  of  my  comrades.  He  was  shout¬ 
ing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  for  me  to  make  a  quick  getaway. 
As  I  did  not  discern  pursuers  or  another  excuse  for  his  head¬ 
long  flight,  I  sprang  to  meet  him  as  I  wanted  to  make 
inquiries  as  to  what  was  amiss.  Ere  I  could  fathom  his 
intention,  he  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  then  by  twisting  my 
wrist  he  forced  me  to  run  abreast  of  him  while  he  explained 
that  my  pals  had  been  arrested  by  the  police,  how  he  himself 
had  been  chased,  and  unless  I  yearned  to  serve  a  long  term 
in  a  work  house  where  prisoners  were  starved  and  mal¬ 
treated,  I  should  keep  along  with  him  and  seek  cover  from 
oiur  enemies.  He  had  hold  of  me  so  that  I  could  not  readily 
release  myself  from  his  clutches,  and  besides,  I  was  so 
badly  frightened  by  the  prospect  of  adding  another  unpleas¬ 
ant  experience  to  the  lot  I  had  encountered  since  leaving 
home,  that  I  allowed  the  hobo  to  drag  me  with  him  to  a 
patch  of  woodland  wherein  we  found  a  hiding  place.  While 
we  were  waiting  on  nightfall  to  favor  our  escape,  the  tramp 
whose  nickname  was  “Carolina  Bob,”  repeated  his  tender 
to  see  me  safely  back  to  my  parents.  As  I  imagined  myself 


20 


The  Snare  of  the  Rodd. 


hounded  by  hostile  strangers  and  the  strolling  panhandler 
was  the  only  soul  who  seemed  to  have  my  interest  at  heart, 
I  eagerly  accepted  his  offer. 

Late  in  the  night  we  left  our  retreat.  Taking  to  the 
wagon  roads  we  walked  until  break  of  day,  then  we  found 
another  retreat  “to  sidetrack  the  cops,”  as  my  new  travel 
mate  called  this  hide  and  seek  game  which  we  continued 
to  play  for  several  days.  We  returned  to  the  hoboing  of 
railroad  cars  only  when  Carolina  Bob  felt  assured  that  I 
had  finally  overcome  a  natural  aversion  against  his  com¬ 
panionship. 

It  was  night  when  we  crawled  onto  a  coal  car  of  a 
freight  train,  otherwise  perhaps  I  would  have  discovered 
earlier  by  days  that  instead  of  traveling  in  the  direction  of 
Arkansas,  the  foul  fellow  in  whose  keeping  I  had  entrusted 
myself,  was  doing  record  hoboing  towards  the  Pacific  Coast. 
When  I  remonstrated  with  him  against  being  separated 
by  an  ever  greater  distance  from  my  loved  ones,  the  nasty 
tramp  always  had  plausible  excuses  ready  which  further 
deceived  me  who  by  this  time  had  become  a  very  homesick 
and  most  penitent  lad. 

My  rising  suspicion  that  all  was  not  above  board  with 
the  intentions  of  Carolina  Bob  was  vastly  increased  when 
after  a  spurt  of  really  swift  hoboing  in  the  course  of  which 
he  carefully  looked  after  my  wants,  he  dropped  to  less  fast 
railroading,  made  me  hustle  my  own  provender,  and  in  the 
end  induced  me  to  panhandle  his  handouts.  When  I  had 
mastered  these  shame-stunting  tasks,  he  taught  me  by 
subtle,  but  if  I  disobeyed  even  the  least  of  his  commands, 
then  by  utmost  brutcd  tactics,  tricks  of  the  hobo  trade  no 
clean  minded  human  would  have  dreamt  were  boldly  prac¬ 
ticed  in  public  by  boys  and  cripples  who  were  held  in  servile 
leash  by  heartless  “jockers,”  as  this  class  of  trainers  of 
beggars  were  termed  in  hobodom. 

When  Carolina  Bob  thought  he  had  taught  -  me  the 
begging  game  so  that  he  could  depend  on  my  applying  its 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


21 


schemes  with  an  assurance  of  fair  returns,  he  began  to 
make  lengthy  halts  at  towns  and  hamlets  where  he  forced 
me  to  practice  my  new  vocation.  He  avoided  every  com¬ 
munity  where  jockers  were  not  permitted  to  tarry  and  others 
where  scoundrels  of  their  class  were  relentlessly  prosecuted. 
He  gathered  advance  information  as  to  the  lay  of  the  local¬ 
ities  from  fellow  jockers  he  met  during  his  travels  and  so 
well  were  all  posted  that  they  could  furnish  reliable  intel¬ 
ligence  concerning  districts  they  had  never  “worked.” 

The  clow  progress  we  made  enabled  me  to  communicate . 
with  my  parents.  'In  the  letter  I  mailed  I  pleaded  to  be 
forgiven  and  directed  that  if  they  cared  to  answer  the  reply 
was  to  be  addressed  to  a  town  at  which  Carolina  Bob  in¬ 
tended  to  make  a  stop.  I  received  an  answer.  In  it  ray 
folks  gave  me  a  straight  piece  of  their  mind,  and  unaware 
that  I  was  the  virtual  slave  of  a  designing  hobo,  they 
finished  their  otherwise  tart  epistle  by.  promising  that  I 
should  receive  their  full  pardon  provided  I  voluntarily 
returned  home. 

But  this  was  about  the  roughest  task  they  could  have 
picked  out  for  poor  me!  Even  before  I  received  this  letter 
and  many  times  after  its  receipt,  I  staged  attempts  without 
number  to  escape  from  the  keeping  of  the  boy  slaver. 
Everyone  of  these  breaks  for  freedom  was  foiled  by  Carolina 
Bob  in  person  or  I  was  returned  to  his  hands  by  other 
jockers  whom  I  could  not  avoid  meeting  at  railroad  division 
points.  The  maltreatment  meted  out  to  me  by  my  jocker 
after  every  futile  attempt  to  make  a  getaway,  quickly 
undermined  my  will  power  and  with  it  vanished  every  desire 
to  desert  my  brutal  taskmaster  or  to  inform  the  police  of 
his  criminal  doings.  By  the  time  we  arrived  on  the  Pacific 
Slope,  the  hobo  had  brought  me  to  the  basest  level  to  which 
a  boy  could  be  degraded:  He  had  made  of  me  who  had 
sprung  from  one  of  the  proudest  families  of  the  Southland, 
a  beggar  boy  to  a  beggar  of  the  most  loathsome  caste. 


22 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


With  the  money  he  compelled  me  to  beg,  Carolina  Bob 
purchased  alcohol  at  drug  stores.  To  chain  me  the  more 
securely  to  the  Road,  he  forced  me  to  join  him  in  the 
drinking  of  the  fiery  fluid,  either  in  its  pure  state  or  but 
slightly  diluted  with  water.  At  first  I  firmly  refused  to 
touch  the  vile  dram,  but  finally  he  overcame  my  objections 
by  insisting  that  I  drink  the  acid  stuff  “just  for  the  fun  of 
it”  and  “for  the  sake  of  sociability.”  The  result  of  this 
continual  tippling  was  easy  to  predict.  Within  an  almost 
incredible  short  span  of  time,  he  had  converted  me  into  a 
confirmed  consumer  of  a  liquid  against  the  effects  of  which 
as  against  those  of  the  Road,  no  soul  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  forewarn  me. 

Even  the  least  desire  on  my  part  to  return  to  my  folks 
was  extinguished  when  one  day  I  chanced  to  gaze  into  a 
mirror  and  noted  to  my  infinite  horror  how  the  corroding 
action  of  the  horrid  concoction  I  had  imbibed  had  com¬ 
menced  to  change  my  boyish,  clean  cut  countenance  into 
a  counterpart  of  the  repulsive,  bleary  eyed  mug  borne 
through  life  by  almost  every  professional  hobo,  a  mask 
which  furnishes  a  public  proof  that  rum  and  the  Road  are 
aiming  at  a  common  objective  —  the  ruination  of  their 
-  followers. 

Concurrent  with  this  discovery  I  lost  every  ambition  to 
mend  my  ways.  This  forfeiture  of  character  was  to  a 
degree  compensated  for  by  a  high  physical  perfection  of 
my  body  which  to  a  large  measure  was  due  to  the  rough 
outdoor  existence  I  was  leading.  This  toughening  of  my 
bodily  fibers  was  to  play  a  most  important  role  in  the  shap- 
ening  of  my  subsequent  career. 

Soon  after  I  had  arrived  at  man’s  estate  (21),  my  jocker 
with  several  of  his  fellows  indulged  in  one  of  their  periodical 
drinking  bouts  which  were  staged  whenever  jockers  met 
and  pooled  the  pickings  from  a  gullible  public  by  their 
road  kids  for  the  purchase  of  alcohol.  This  latest  bout  was 
worked  out  in  a  jungle  camp.  While  Carolina  Bob  labored 


Th^  Snare  of  the  Road. 


23 


under  the  malign  influence  of  rum,  he  accused  me  of  having 
committed  a  fancied  wrong.  When  I  dared  to  deny  his 
charges,  he  wildy  swore  that  he  would  bodily  punish  me  then 
and  there  before  the  gang  of  jockers  and  their  road  kids. 

Heretofore  I  had  meekly  submitted  to  every  sort  of 
abuse  at  the  hands  of  the  cruel  scoundrel  for  I  was  quick 
to  note  it  served  my  best  interests  to  suffer  with  least 
complaint  whatever  savagery  he  wished  to  wreak  on  helpless 


Carolina  Bob  was  the  toughest  hobo  we  had  seen  in  our  day. 


me.  But  this  day  before  a  mob  of  tramps,  though  the  men 
had  passed  and  the  boys  were  still  passing  through  a  similar 
course  of  degeneration,  for  the  first  instance  since  I  had 
been  made  a  road  kid,  I  fully  realized  the  bottomless  dis¬ 
grace  all  these  years  I  had  allowed  myself  to  be  subjected 
to  by  a  stranger  who  to  cap  the  infamy  was  a  vulgar  hobo 
of  the  foulest  sort,  and  I  dared  Carolina  Bob  to  do  his  worst. 


24 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


Scarcely  had  my  defy  against  his  authority  left  my 
lips,  than  Carolina  Bob  with  anger  mounting  to  a  fury 
uncontrollable  leaped  to  where  I  stood  awaiting  his  coming. 
Instead  of  whining  like  a  whipped  cur  as  had  been  my  wont, 
I  bravely  warded  off  his  initial  onslaught  and  then  began 
to  return  blow  for  blow.  When  I  took  notice  that  I  had 
the  ability  to  resist  his  attack,  the  years  of  abject  slavery 
I  had  endured  endowed  me  with  the  desperate  resolve  to 
settle  the  score  I  owed  the  hobo  fiend  who  even  now  con¬ 
sidered  himself  to  be  the  rightful  owner  of  both  my  soul 
and  my  body.  When  I  had  driven  my  fists  time  and  again 
with  telling  effects  at  the  most  vulnerable  spots  of  his  body, 
I  closed  with  him  and  fortunately  secured  a  grip  by  the 
use  of  which  I  threw  him  to  the  sod. 

I  accomplished  this  feat  the  more  readily,  as  Carolina 
Bob  was  handicapped  by  an  overload  of  brain  befuddling 
alcohol.  He  had  taken  on  a  good  deal  more  than  twice 
the  quantity  I  had  imbibed  and  he  had  come  to  this  doubled 
measure  by  taking  advantage  of  a  time  honored  custom 
in  vogue  among  hoboes  that  entitled  every  master  tramp 
to  the  privilege  of  extracting  two  liberal  draughts  from  a 
rum  bottle  passing  the  round  of  a  hobo  camp,  while  to 
each  road  kid  was  allotted  a  meager  sip. 

Sitting  astride  of  Carolina  Bob,  I  copied  after  him  the 
fiendish  maltreatment  I  had  suffered  so  often  at  his  hands. 
Even  when  the  jocker  admitted  in  humility  that  of  the  two 
of  us,  I  was  the  better  man,  I  increased  the  severity  of  the 
ptmishment  he  so  richly  deserved.  I  only  stopped  when  he 
agreed  that  henceforth  there  should  be  a  parting  of  our 
ways  and  promised  to  immediately  quit  the  jungle  camp 
never  to  return.  Searching  through  his  clothes,  I  appro¬ 
priated  his  razor  and  other  deadly  tools  which  while  I  was 
in  his  keeping,  I  had  ofttimes  watched  the  coward  use  with 
dreadful  effect  to  maim  fellow  tramps  and  unarmed  citizens 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


25 


who  perhaps  unintentionally  had  run  counter  to  the  ideas 
advanced  by  the  rascal  while  in  his  cups.  Then  I  saw 
Carolina  Bob  on  his  way. 

Returning  to  the  jungle  camp,  I  was  pleasantly  sur¬ 
prised  to  note  that  during  my  brief  absence  a  most  remark¬ 
able  change  had  come  in  the  demeanor  of  the  jockers  towards 
me  who  heretofore  had  been  their  cuff.  Although  they  and 
their  road  kids  had  been  interested  spectators  of  the  hobo 
battle,  none  had  lifted  a  finger  or  uttered  a  word  in  favor 
of  either  one  or  the  other  of  the  combatants.  But  now  that 
I  had  defeated  the  villain  who  had  ruled  me  with  an  iron 
hand,  they  showered  me  with  their  congratulations  as  in 
accordance  with  a  precept  of  the  Road  —  one  likewise 
observed  by  the  wandering  gypsies  —  I  had  attained  my 
majority,  for  the  going  down  in  defeat  of  a  jocker  at  the 
hands  of  his  road  kid  is  considered  in  hobodom  a  conclusive 
proof  that  the  kid  had  outlived  his  usefulness  as  a  producer 
of  alms  at  his  own  peril  but  for  the  sole  benefit  of  his  trainer. 

When  the  congratulating  and  other  expressions  of  their 
good  will  had  been  brought  to  conclusion,  the  jockers 
insisted  that  I  change  my  name  de  tramp  “Arkansas  Kid” 
to  that  of  “Arkansas  Jimmy,”  saying,  that  only  a  hobo 
who  had  failed  to  vanquish  his  jocker  or  had  gained  his 
freedom  by  other  than  recognized  means  was  allowed  in 
trampdom  to  continue  the  use  of  the  lowly  appellation 
“Kid.” 

Almost  in  a  trice  I  had  blossomed  into  a  full  fledged 
Knight  of  the  Road.  Later  on  came  the  moment  when  it 
was  for  me  to  decide  to  which  of  the  numerous  branches 
of  hobodom  henceforth  I  should  devote  my  best  endeavors. 

The  sum  total  of  my  roving  had  been  a  lazy  drifting 
from  burg  to  burg  with  Carolina  Bob.  Now  that  I  had  cast 
off  every  restraint  the  recollection  of  the  missed  opportu¬ 
nities  to  see  a  bit  of  the  world  brought  me  to  the  decision 
to  become  a  “scenery  tramp,”  one  whose  sole  ambition  was 
to  rove  the  land  in  search  of  eights  worth  viewing. 


26 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


Starting  on  my  new  activity,  I  “jumped  crossways,” 
by  which  tramp  term  is  meant,  that  I  hoboed  without  a 
regular  routing.  I  covered  the  continent  in  record  time  by 
way  of  the  principal  railroad  lines.  Having  ranged  over 
the  main  rail  routes,  I  hoboed  back  and  forth  over  their 
branches  and  the  lesser  railroad  systems.  Finishing  with 
these,  I  returned  to  the  chief  arteries  of  travel  to  search 
out  vistas  I  had  missed  at  first  instance. 

Then,  by  chance,  I  made  a  most  peculiar  discovery. 

I  had  heard  it  stated  that  traveling  was  the  foremost  of 
educators.  That  legitimate  traveling  was  this,  I  had  con¬ 
clusively  proven  to  me  as  early  in  my  earthly  career  as 
the  days  just  beyond  the  stage  of  babyhood.  Then  we 
youngsters  would  sit  with  mouth  agape  and  never  fagging 
interest  listening  by  the  hour  to  the  tales  of  travel  which  our 
grandpcu-ents  narrated  to  entertain  us.  The  “Old  Folks” 
seemed  to  derive  no  end  of  enjoyment  from  a  recounting 
of  happenings  which  occurred  in  the  course  of  journeys 
they  had  undertaken  in  the  days  of  long-ago,  recollections 
of  which  incidents  had  become  graven  so  deeply  in  their 
memory,  that  they  had  been  vividly  retained  throughout 
the  years.  Any  number  of  other  instances  I  could  cite  to 
bear  out  the  contention  that  traveling  by  legitimate  methods  ' 
is  eminently  beneficial  to  both  mind  and  body. 

On  the  other  hand,  observations  and  personal  experi¬ 
ences  without  number  and  those  of  fellow  tramps  of  every 
grade  I  interviewed  on  this  subject,  have  furnished  irre¬ 
futable  proofs  that  illegal  railroad  touring  returns  precious 
little  benefits  considering  the  almost  incredible  hazards 
involved.  To  give  a  practical  test  to  my  discovery,  I  asked 
tramps  to  give  me  their  description  of  a  number  of  certain 
cities.  This  resulted  that,  with  the  exception  of  mention¬ 
ing  landmarks  known  to  every  child  from  their  school 
studies  of  geography,  the  general  descriptions  I  received 
tallied  so  well  in  major  points  as  to  leave  the  impression  that 
the  cities  had  all  been  patterned  after  a  standard  model. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


27 


A  further  and  more  thorough  study  of  this  phenomenon 
brought  home  to  me  in  full  the  truth  that  withal  his  count¬ 
less  faults,  Carolina  Bob  had  proven  himself  a  smart  chap 
in  one  instance.  Whenever  I  chafed  under  the  irksome 
restraint  which  his  slow  and  sloven  manner  of  hoboing  im¬ 
posed  upon  my  youthful  aspirations,  he  had  everlastingly 
repeated  an  admonition  that  proved  most  discomforting 
to  my  travel  and  adventure  yearning  soul. 

“What  on  earth  is  the  use,  kid,”  he  would  snarl  on 
such  occasions,  “to  shin  yourself  alive  for  the  sake  of 
geezing  at  fancy  scenery  when  to  do  so  one  has  to  miss  so 
many  mulligan  stews  and  other  good  things  only  to  be 
taught  in  the  long  run  that  the  more  one  sees  the  less  one 
will  be  able  to  remember?” 

When  I  had  satisfied  myself  of  the  correctness  of  this 
matter-of-fact  deduction,  I  promptly  discontinued  my  in¬ 
sane  railroading.  By  gradual  degrees  I  slipped  downward 
in  the  classification  of  the  tramps  until  I  had  descended 
to  the  stage  from  which  I  had  originally  risen  —  I  became 
a  jocker. 

As  did  all  jocker  tramps,  and  they  comprise  a  good 
one-fourth  of  the  professional  hoboes,  so  I  quickly  mastered 
the  various  low  tricks  connected  with  the  capturing  of 
road  kids  from  among  the  thousands  and  thousands  of 
youngsters  who  deserted  their  parents  impelled  by  the 
crazy  notion  that  among  strangers  they  would  have  a 
better  chance  to  get  ahead  in  the  world.  I  broke  the  boys 
to  the  game  of  the  Road  by  making  use  of  the  same  foul 
means  as  Carolina  Bob,  who  had  neither  spared  pains  nor 
hesitated  to  administer  them  with  rankest  liberality,  had 
applied  to  crush  my  spirits  and  which  methods  had  been 
successfully  employed  by  every  jocker  back  to  the  day  when 
a  hobo  too  lazy  to  beg  his  own  provender  made  the  fateful 
discovery  that  a  likely  lad  was  the  most  valuable  asset, 
by  far,  of  the  whole  tramp  business. 


The  Snare  of  the  JRmd. 


2S 

It’s  less  than  three  weeks  since  my  latest  road  kid 
regained  his  liberty.  He  earned  a  release  from  his  bondage 
without  having  lifted  a  hand  against  my  authority.  This 
would  have  been  a  physical  impossibility  as  he  was  a  mere 
mite  of  a  lad.  Nevertheless,  were  I  to  cross  his  path  this 
minute,  I  would  have  no  further  claim  to  his  services;  on 
the  contrary,  the  rules  of  the  Road  would  compel  me  to 
recognize  him  as  my  equal. 

The  police  turned  this  trick  for  the  road  kid  when  they 
surprised  him  ransacking  a  private  residence  during  the 
absence  of  the  occupants.  Finding  themselves  balked  in 
every  effort  to  force  or  to  wheedle  his  correct  address  from 
the  boy,  they  sent  him  to  a  reformatory.  It  is  this  sort  of 
sentence  that  is  rated  by  trampdom  an  equivalent  to  an 
unconditional  release  of  a  road  kid  from  every  obligation 
to  his  jocker. 

Ere  many  years  have  passed,  so  I  am  quite  certain,  I 
will  run  across  him  and  his  road  kids,  for  such  is  the  dread¬ 
ful  blight  of  the  Road  and  the  imbibing  of  raw  alcohol,  that 
whoever  has  escaped  their  combined  grip,  stands  a  first 
rate  chance  to  be  drawn  back  into  their  vortex. 


Arkansas  jimmy  had  lapsed  into  silence.  His 
gaze  and  actions  plainly  indicated  a  desire  on  his 
part  to  take  leave  of  his  audience.  He  evidently 
labored  under  the  impression  that  he  had  furnished  a 
sufficiency  of  entertainment  commensurate  with  the  amount 
of  the  compensation  he  had  been  promised  for  his  services. 
The  master  of  the  house  must  have  thought  otherwise,  for 
he  broached  an  inquiry  under  the  lash  whereof  the  hobo 
fairly  winced  with  shame  and  which  brought  in  its  wake  a 
resumption  of  the  lecture. 


Th»  Snare  of  the  Road. 


29 


“Tell  the  members  of  my  household,  sir,”  demanded 
Mr.  Davis,  “if  since  defeating  Carolina  Bob  you  have 
taken  advantage  of  your  freedom  to  try  and  quit  the 
miserable  existence  you  have  described?” 

Arkansas  Jimmy  led  off:  Once  only  since  I  regained 
control  of  my  actions,  have  I  seriously  attempted  to  free 
myself  from  the  yoke  of  the  Road.  This  was  in  the  year 
nineteen  hundred  and  six  when  the  national  government 
invited  all  citizens  to  participate  in  a  public  lottery  which 
was  to  be  held  in  the  midsummer  at  Billitigs.  Near  this 
hustling  city  of  Montana  was  an  Indian  reservation,  the 
acreage  of  which  the  federal  authorities  proposed  to  equit¬ 
ably  distribute  among  the  citizens  by  taking  recourse  to 
a  lottery.  One  restriction  was  appended  to  this  invitation : 
Every  participant  in  the  land  distribution  was  required 
to  personally  present  himself  at  the  lottery  headquarters 
in  Billings  to  file  his  address  and  an  affidavit  attesting  the 
legality  of  his  claim  to  citizenship. 

To  serve  the  purposes  of  a  lottery,  surveyors  had  divid¬ 
ed  and  then  staked  off  the  reservation  into  one  hundred  and 
sixty  acre  tracts  which  had  been  consecutively  numbered. 
A  concurrent  drawing  of  the  names  of  the  citizens  who  had 
registered  at  Billings  and  the  numbers  of  the  tracts  was  to 
decide  the  winners  of  the  homesteads. 

As  was  to  be  expected  considering  circumstances,  all 
hobodom  was  agog  with  excitement  when  the  particulars 
of  the  lottery  became  known  to  the  Brethren  of  the  Road. 
Of  all  who  held  a  valid  claim  to  citizenship,  the  hoboes 
stood  first  in  line  to  benefit  from  the  paternal  generosity, 
of  the  government,  as  to  them  the  scheme  promised  the 
fattest  kind  of  pickings  in  return  for  such  a  precious  little: 
A  fair  chance  to  win  the  ownership  of  a  farm  as  a  reward 
for  undertaking  a  hobo  trip  to  Billings  instead  of  one  with 
another  destination.  • 

Months  before  the  registration  began,  the  lottery  had 
become  the  favorite  topic  of  discussion  wherever  hoboes 


30 


The  Snare  of  the  Road* 


met.  A  continual  repeating  of  the  self-same  theme  soon 
moculated  the  Wandering  Willies  so  tremendously  with  the 
gambling  spirit  that  every  soul  of  them  vowed  to  attend 
the  lottery.  They  agreed  among  themselves  who  of  them 
drew  a  prize  should  dispose  of  it  to  the  highest  cash  bidder 
of  the  settled  citizens  who  had  failed  to  draw  a  homestead. 
The  proceeds  of  these  deals  in  real  estate  were  to  be 
squandered  on  alcohol  bouts  of  proportions  so  revolting 
as  to  make  every  hobo  who  had  missed  the  pilgrimage  to 
Montana,  gasp  with  wonderment  when  he  heard  the  details 
of  the  orgies. 

These  in  brief  were  the  plans  of  my  fellow  hoboes. 
Like  they,  so  I  expected  to  take  advantage  of  my  rights  to 
participate  in  the  public  lottery,  but  their  plans  differed 
in  every  way  with  the  intentions  I  had  in  view  if  fortune 
favored  me  with  the  winning  of  a  homestead.  I  had  sprung 
from  a  family  that  in  the  course  of  generations  had  produced 
many  eminent  agriculturists.  The  ambitions  of  these 
ancestors  were  evidently  coursing  through  my  veins  with 
life’s  crimson  fluid  or  how  otherwise  was  it  that  many  years 
ere  I  had  heard  of  the  proposed  doings  at  Billings,  I  ,  had 
nursed  fond  hopes  that  some  day  there  would  come  my 
chance  to  demonstrate  that  there  still  remained  the  moral 
strength  to  lift  myself  from  the  level  of  a  jocker  tramp, 
who  among  creatures  loathed  by  humanity  wqs  the  most 
despised,  to  the  status  of  a  husbandman  to  whom  his  fellows 
were  willing  to  accord  respect.  Although  I  was  without 
funds,  I  possessed  the  grit  to  propose  achieving  success 
by  hiring  out  to  other  farmers  whenever  I  had  time  to 
spare  from  work  that  had  to  be  done  on  my  own  homestead. 

When  summer  opened  I  was  yet  abroad  in  the  state  of 
Maine.  I  started  on  my  journey  to  faraway  Montana 
only  when  the  day  drew  near  on  which  the  registration  of 
citizens  at  the  Billings  land  office  would  come  to  a  close. 
Long  before  I  undertook  the  trip,  the  lottery-bound  migra¬ 
tion  had  stripped  the  dumps,  the  slums  and  the  jungle 


^  The  Snare  of  the  Road.  31 

camps  of  the  “Down  East”  of  its  vagrant  population.  I 
had  allowed  myself  to  linger  this  late  in  scenic  New  England, 
charmed  by  its  silvery  lakes,  its  grand  vistas,  its  sylvan 
.dells  and  rockbound  coasts,  because  I  was  a  rambler  and 
<for  this  reason  felt  I  was  qualified  to  make  a  swifter  job 
of  the  hoboing  to  Billings  than  were  a  vast  majority  of 
hoboes  whom  I  knew  to  have  been  abroad  in  the  eastern 
section,  as  they  were  rattlers. 


The  chef  had  been  up  against  a  similar  proposition. 


In  accordance  with  the  method  of  travel  they  prefer 
when  hoboing  over  the  country,  tramps  are  classed  in 
three  grand  divisions:  “Pikers”  they  are  called  who  walk; 
“Rattlers,”  who  ride  freight  cars,  and  “Ramblers,”  who 
hobo  passenger  trains. 

The  ramblers  are  further  subdivided  into  two  classes: 
“Foxes”  are  termed  those  who  ride  within  the  coaches  by 
kiting  hat  checks,  by  occupying  vacant  berths,  and  by 
resorting  to  other  tricks  of  cunning,  and  “Wolves”  tramps 


32 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


i 


who  depend  on  brute  strength  to  accomplish  their  ends. 
The  wolves  in  their  turn  are  graded  into  three  distinct 
ratings:  “Catters”  —  those  who  ride  the  platforms  of  mail 
express  and  baggage  cars,  the  tenders  of  engines,  and  similar 
places;  “Danglers”  —  those  who  suspend  themselves  from 
the  rods  upholding  the  coach  bodies,  straddle  trucks  and 
brakebeams,  or  attach  themselves  to  other  hazardous  out- 
holds  beneath  the  passenger  equipment,  and  last  in  line 
are  the  “Roofers”  —  those  who  travel  lying  stretched  full 
length  upon  the  metallic  roofs  of  the  coaches. 

As  mentioned,  I  was  a  rambler  and  my  professional 
rating  was  that  of  a  roofer.  My  favorite  place  of  deadhead 
traveling  was  the  roof  of  the  dining  car  if  such  was  hauled 
in  the  train  I  chanced  to  be  hoboing.  Protruding  well 
above  the  roof  of  every  diner  and  there  placed  so  near  to 
each  other  as  to  afford  an  excellent  screen  to  a  roofer,  were 
the  smoke  escape  of  the  kitchen  range  and  a  large  opening 
in  the  roof  of  the  car  that  did  service  for  a  ventilator  and 
was  provided  with  a  cover  either  end  of  which  could  be 
lifted  from  within  the  kitchen  by  means  of  levers.  One  end 
of  this  cover  was  always  tilted  skyward  whenever  the  kit¬ 
chen  force,  consisting  of  a  first  chef,  his  assistant  and  a 
general  utility  man  (dishwasher,  peeler  of  spuds,  etc.)  were 
plying  their  culinary  art  within  the  hot  and  narrow  kitchen 
compartment. 

Excepting  escapes  without  number  from  death  beneath 
the  whirring  wheels  and  arrest  at  the  hands  of  the  railroad 
and  municipal  police,  I  encountered  no  incidents  worth 
while  chronicling  on  that  portion  of  my  trip  leading  over 
the  Vanderbilt  Lines  to  Omaha  where  I  changed  to  the 
Burlington  Route,  a  branch  of  which  terminated  at  Billings. 

Although  among  the  wanderlusting  gentry  the  pas¬ 
senger  trains  of  the  Burlington  were  rated  to  be  rough 
propositions  to  hobo,  I  had  no  complaint  to  register  on 
this  score  as  at  supper  time  I  had  climbed  at  Lincoln  to  the 
roof  of  the  dining  car  of  the  Puget  Sound  Limited  when  this 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


S3 


crack  train  left  the  Union  Station  of  Nebraska’s  capital 
and  when  dawn  tinted  the  eastern  horizon  with  soft  colors 
I  was  still  holding  forth  in  my  lofty  berth. 

When  the  limited  had  passed  Alliance  (Neb.)  I  was 
yet  on  hand  and  watched  ill-fumed  smoke  billowing  from 
the  smoke  escape  of  the  diner  and  heard  the  metallic  clat¬ 
tering  of  kitchen  ware,  both  indications  that  below  me  in 
the  bowels  of  the  dining  car  the  chefs  had  begun  their 
work  of  the  day  with  making  preparations  for  the  serving 
of  the  breakfast.  Later  on  the  cover  of  the  ventilator  was 
tilted  still  farther  skyward  so  as  to  admit  the  cool  morning 
breezes  which  were  sweeping  over  the  prairie  from  the 
Black  Hills  of  the  Dakotas.  I  moved  a  safe  distance  from 
the  rim  of  the  open  maw  of  the  ventilator  to  avert  an  un¬ 
timely  discovery  of  my  presence  by  the  cooks.  Where  I 
lay  I  could  overhear  all  loud  talking  in  the  kitchen  and  the 
adjoining  pantry. 

The  limited  had  left  Edgemont,  South  Dakota,  when 
the  frequent  slamming  of  the  entrance  doors  of  the  diner 
announced  that  the  passengers  were  entering  the  dining 
room  of  the  car  to  partake  of  their  morning  meal.  I  heard 
the  colored  waiters  repeat  the  orders  the  patrons  had  se¬ 
lected  from  the  bill  of  fare  to  the  chefs  for  filling. 

Presently  there  came  wafting  upward  from  the  open 
ventilator  the  smells  of  the  baking,  boiling,  broiling,  frying, 
roasting  and  toasting  of  the  component  parts  of  the  break¬ 
fast  orders  the  chefs  had  received.  These  savory  odors  of 
high  art  cookery  proved  extraordinarily  tantalizing  to 
me  who  was  almost  famished  to  the  limit  of  physical  en¬ 
durance. 

To  have  one’s  appetite  verging  unpleasantly  close  to 
a  state  of  actual  starvation  is  considered  by  the  roving 
tramps  one  of  the  most  commonplace  of  their  afflictions. 
A  best  proof  that  all  hobodom  is  incessantly  battling  with 
•very  degree  of  hunger  may  readily  be  had  in  the  fact  that 


34  The  Snare  of  the  Road. 

indeed  a  rare  bird  is  the  hobo  whose  waist  line  would  fail 
to  arouse  the  envy  of  the  corpulent  among  the  settled 
citizens. 

In  all  the  years  I  have  roved  over  the  world,  I  have 
met  but  one  pouch  bellied  Wandering  Willie  and  his  moniker 
was  “Pennsylvania  Fatty.”  Not  a  great  while  after  making 
his  acquaintance  the  report  went  the  round  of  hobo  camps 
that  the  stout  one  had  commenced  the  serving  of  a  twenty- 
year  term  in  a  state  penitentiary.  The  transom  over  the 
rear  entrance  of  a  jewelry  store  had  proven  his  undoing. 
The  police  had  to  invoke  the  assistance  of  the  fire  depart¬ 
ment  to  release  the  hobo  burglar  from  the  Unique  trap  that 
held  him  as  if  in  a  vise. 

This  morning  while  the  limited  was  reeling  off  mileage 
at  a  most  amazing  rate,  I  felt  so  outrageously  hungry  that 
my  bodily  emptiness  was  assuming  health  threatening 
proportions.  As  I  had  come  to  my  ravenous  appetite  by  a 
succession  of  singular  experiences,  I  shall  renumerate  these 
at  some  length. 

Long  ere  the  breakfast  hour  of  the  preceding  day,  I  had 
been  abroad  in  the  train  shed  of  the  Omaha  Terminal  of 
the  Burlington  System.  However,  all  attempts  I  made  to 
hobo  from  the  city  aboard  one  of  the  early  morning  passen¬ 
ger  trains  were  frustrated  by  watchmen.  Not  wishing  to 
terminate  my  important  journey  with  a  trip  to  the  Douglas 
County  Work  House,  I  left  the  hobo-proof  station  and  went 
to  the  freight  yard  of  the  Burlington,  where,  so  I  wisely 
reasoned,  in  the  open  I  would  have  a  better  show  to  make 
my  getaway  from  Omaha. 

The  freight  yard  was  located  several  miles  beyond  the 
city  limits  and  quite  remote  from  every  human  habitation 
where  a  hungry  fellow  might  have  panhandled  a  lunch. 
It  was  well  past  the  noon  hour  when  the  first  train  was  made 
ready  to  leave  the  yard.  It  was  a  pick-up  destined  to  Lin¬ 
coln,  fifty  miles  on  my  way  to  Billings.  An  inspection  of 
the  cars  to  be  taken  away  by  the  train  revealed  that  tliere 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


35 


were  only  two  empty  box  cars  and  that  these  had  been 
placed  adjoining  each  other  near  the  caboose.  Despite 
this  handicap  I  managed  to  climb  aboard  one  of  the  ‘‘emp¬ 
ties”  without  being  spotted  by  the  train  crew.  Soon  after 
I  had  shut  the  doors  of  the  car,  the  freight  left  the  yard. 

With  rare  exceptions  all  ramblers  are  graduates  from 
the  ranks  of  the  rattlers.  They  return  to  the  hoboing  of 
freight  trains  only  in  a  case  of  direst  necessity  as  the  travel¬ 
ing  in  box  cars  is  far  from  being  a  pleasurable  experience. 
Freight  cars  were  constructed  to  transport  merchandise 
and  live  stock  but  not  passengers,  therefore,  they  were  not 
provided  with  springs  as  elastic  as  are  those  placed  in  the 
trucks  of  the  passenger  train  equipment.  Even  the  best 
balanced  freight  car  when  passing  over  a  smooth  and  well 
ballasted  rail  joint  will  administer  a  most  unpleasant  jolt 
to  a  hobo.  A  most  terrific  kick  by  the  car  announces  the 
fact  whenever  it  is  rolling  over  a  joint  either  sunk  below 
the  general  alignment  of  the  track  or  one  that  had  buckled 
upwards.  Then  one  must  count  on  being  frequently  sub¬ 
jected  to  the  terrors  of  “flat  wheels,”  a  car  ailment  due  to 
the  sliding  over  the  rails  by  the  wheels  with  the  brake 
shoes  gripping  them  thus  resulting  in  erasions  on  their 
rims  which  flat  spots,  while  the  car  is  en  route,  roughly 
shake  its  frame  from  stem  to  stern  and  from  floor  to  ceiling,  < 
hence  freight  trains  and  the  hoboes  patronizing  them  are 
correctly  termed  when  they  are  called  “rattlers.” 

The  box  car  into  which  I  had  strayed,  soon  gave  ample 
evidence  that  it  suffered  with  two  “flat  wheels,”  one  each 
in  the  front  and  rear  trucks.  I  stood  the  terrible  jouncing 
with  little  complaining  as  I  had  been  informed  by  fellow 
hoboes  where,  on  my  ari'ival  at  Lincoln,  I  would  find  the 
residence  of  the  valiant  “word  fighter”  William  Jennings 
Bryan,  whose  English  lackeys  had  orders  to  look  after  the 
needs  of  voters  who  paid  calls  at  the  rear  entrances  of 
private  homes. 


36 


The  Snare  of  thte  Road, 


The  freight  train  proved  to  be  a  very  tardy  traveler. 
The  red  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  playing  a  fiery  tattoo 
upon  the  exterior  of  the  box  car  while  the  train  had  tarried 
for  some  time  on  a  passing  located  some  miles  from  Lincoln, 
when  my  appetite  became  so  fierce  that  forsaking  caution 
I  slid  open  a  door  of  the  car  to  search  the  landscape  to  see 
if  I  could  discern  a  home  placed  so  near  to  the  right  of  way 
of  the  Burlington  to  permit  a  leaving  of  the  car  to  forage 
for  food. 

Only  then  I  became  aware  that  another  hobo  had  taken 
passage  aboard  the  train.  The  tip  of  a  straw  hat  extending 
beyond  the  otherwise  perfect  outline  of  the  adjoining  car 
furnished  the  cue  for  my  discovery.  To  attract  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  the  owner  of  the  straw  hat,  I  softly  whistled.  In¬ 
stead  of  heeding  my  call,  the  other  must  have  suspicioned 
that  a  wily  brakeman  was  trying  to  play  a  prank  at  his 
expense  for  he  instantly  withdrew  from  the  open  door  to 
which  he  returned  when  I  continued  my  whistling  and  then 
only  to  frightened  gaze  from  the  car  to  investigate  the 
source  of  the  noise. 

When  I  caught  the  eye  of  the  hobo,  I  nodded.  He 
returned  my  greeting  in  kind  and  then  beckoned  me  to 
visit  with  him.  Appearances  proved  me  to  be  the  younger 
of  the  two,  therefore,  I  jumped  to  the  ground  and  then 
slipped  to  the  side  of  the  other  empty  box  car  into  which  the 
stranger  helped  me  to  climb. 

The  middle  aged  fellow  turned  out  to  be  a  typical 
rattler.  Despite  this  vast  difference  in  our  rating  as  tramps, 
we  introduced  ourselves  and  then  fell  to  a  recounting  of 
hobo  gossip  in  the  course  of  which  I  happened  to  inform 
him  that  I  had  missed  three  meals. 

Then  you  must  be  sort  of  hungry,  bo?”  joked  the 
rattler.. 

A  case  of  actual  starvation!”  I  laughed,  correcting 
the  box  car  tramp. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


37 


“IVe  got  a  few  dimes  in  my  jeans  and  if  you  have  no 
objections,  I  will  stake  you  to  a  supper  when  we  get  to 
Lincoln,  fellow,”  proposed  the  matchless  jewel  of  a  hobo. 

I  accepted  this  offer  the  whole-souled  charity  of  which 
impressed  me  so  favorably  that  v/hen  the  train  departed 
from  the  siding,  I  took  the  occasion  to  repeatedly  thank 
the  Samaritan  for  the  meal  that  as  yet  had  not  material¬ 
ized. 

When  the  train  came  to  a  halt  at  Lincoln  and  we  opened 
a  door  of  the  empty  to  make  our  getaway,  we  noted  that 
the  car  had  come  to  a  standstill  flush  with  the  center  of 
the  train  shed  of  the  Union  Station.  We  had  to  thank 
the  lucky  circumstance  that  a  westbound  passenger  train 
was  standing  in  front  of  the  station  platform  and  so  had 
screened  us  from  observation,  that  we  were  not  immediately 
picked  up  by  some  John  Law  on  leaving  the  car. 

“Let’s  run  for  the  platform  and  lose  ourselves  in  the 
crowd!”  whispered  the  rattler,  to  which  counsel  I  fully 
agreed  as  I,  too,  had  noted  several  blue-coats  and  other 
suspicious  acting  characters  frisking  the  passenger  cars 
for  hoboes.  We  sprinted  across  the  intervening  tracks, 
but  ere  we  could  reach  our  haven  of  refuge  our  exit  from 
the  train  shed  was  barred  by  the  departure  of  the  passenger 
train.  While  we  waited  for  the  passage  of  the  cars,  some  one 
hailed.  Gazing  about  to  see  who  had  shouted,  we  instantly 
realized  that  we  were  wanted,  badly  wanted  and,  at  that, 
by  the  law,  for  we  saw  a  police  officer  running  in  our  direc¬ 
tion  who  was  yelling  at  the  top  of  his  voice  that  we  sur¬ 
render  to  his  custody  as  he  had  seen  us  quitting  the  freight 
train. 

Within  a  flash  I  had  forgotten  the  presence  of  the 
rattler,  the- meal  he  had  promised  and  even  the  hunger  that 
had  steadily  been  sapping  my  strength.  In  their  stead 
there  came  an  overwhelming  desire  to  remove  myself  be¬ 
yond  the  reach  of  the  approaching  bluecoat. 


38 


The  Simre  of  the  Road. 


While  the  departure  of  the  passenger  train  had  shut 
off  every  available  avenue  of  escape  to  the  rattler,  it  had 
vastly  improved  my  chance  to  make  a  clean  getaway.  I 
swung  aboard  the  vestibule  of  a  passing  coach,  climbed  to 
its  roof  and  then  I  gingerly  wriggled  over  it  and  the  adjoin¬ 
ing  ones  until  I  landed  on  the  dining  car.  Only  then  I  took 
the  trouble  to  look  back  into  the  train  shed  to  see  what 
had  become  of  my  pal,  the  rattler.  Evidently  he  had  re¬ 
sisted  submitting  himself  to  arrest  for  I  saw  three  police¬ 
men  sitting  astride  of  hi®  prostrate  form  and  soundly 
belaboring  him  with  their  mazes.  They  were  teaching 
him  respect  for  the  authority  of  the  law. 

Ere  the  train  cleared  the  suburbs  of  Lincoln,  I  had 
decided  on  leaving  the  cars  at  the  first  stop  containing  a 
sufficient  numbet  of  residences  to  insure  a  panhandling  of 
victuals  wherewith  to  satisfy  my  crying  needs.  This  plan 
was  put  to  naught  by  the  fact  that  the  train  tore  at  swift 
speed  by  station  after  station.  When  I  consulted  a  Burling¬ 
ton  train  schedule  I  carried,  I  realized  that  I  had  committed 
an  error  when  I  had  reckoned  the  train  to  be  an  accommoda¬ 
tion  makipg  intermediate  stations  for  instead  of  being  such, 
I  was  roofing  one  of  the  fastest  long  distance  trains  in  the 
land,  the  “Puget  Sound  Limited.” 

It  was  dark  and  long  past  the  supper  hour  when  the 
limited  made  its  first  halt.  It  was  at  a  lone  tank  and  as 
I  was  not  molested  while  the  water  supply  of  the  tender 
was  replenished,  I  knew  this  non-interference  to  be  an 
infallible  omen  that  no  one  aboard  the  train  was  suspecting 
ray  presence.  Aware  that  the  Burlington  Route  held  a 
“strictly  hostile”  rating  among  the  hoboes,  I  concluded 
to  remain  in  my  breezy  berth.  The  warm  summer  night 
proved  to  be  an  ideal  one  for  the  roofing  of  a  passenger 
train.  Connecting  this  with  my  state  of  physical  exhaus¬ 
tion  due  to  my  prolonged  fast,  it  was  pardonable  when  I 
fell  into  a  sound  slumber  soon  after  the  limited  had  left 
the  water  station.  It  was  broad  day  light  when  I  awakened 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


39 


and  feeling  greatly  refreshed  by  the  undisturbed  snooze  I 
had  enjoyed,  I  resolved  to  stay  with  the  train  until  I  was 
either  fired  off  or  landed  at  Billings  where  the  limited  was 
due  at  eight  in  the  evening. 

The  incidents  I  have  so  fully  detailed  and  which  cul¬ 
minated  at  breakfast  time  with  my  lying  stretched  fiat 
on  my  stomach  upon  the  roof  of  the  dining  car  of  the 
Puget  Sound  Limited,  will  give  a  comprehensive  idea  of 
the  tortures  I  had  to  endure  when  below  me  in  the  diner 
the  colored  waiters  began  to  call  out  the  orders  of  their 
patrons  to  the  kitchen  force. 

‘‘Gim’me  two  oadahs  of  Poatah  House,  chef,”  just 
then  one  of  the  darkies  sung  out.  “An'  one  of  Eggs  wid 
der  sunny  side  up;  Two  of  French  Frieds  trimmed  wid 
Musharoons;  One  of  waffers  wid  Vanilla  Ise  Cream  an’ 
Maple  Sap,  an’  two  sma’  cups  of  Coffee.” 

This  was  but  an  example  of  the  many  orders  I  heard 
announced  in  the  course  of  the  serving  of  breakfast.  At 
midday  luncheon  there  came  a  repetition  of  the  exquisite 
torture  of  mind  and  body  I  had  endured  in  the  morning  with 
the  distress  enhanced  by  the  missing  of  an  additional  meal. 

It  required  quite  an  effort  on  my  part  to  restrain  my- 
'  self  from  hearkening  to  the  dictates  of  temptation  which 
urged  mo  to  insert  my  head  into  the  opening  of  the  venti¬ 
lator  and  bodly  brace  tlie  cooks  for  a  lunch.  Since  noon  the 
flyer  had  traveled  through  a  sparcely  settled,  cattle  grazing 
section  and  it  was  the  dread  of  the  possibility  that  the 
chefs  instead  of  granting  my  request  would  report  me  to 
the  conductor  with  the  result  that  he  would  have  me  put 
off  the  cars  and  leave  me  behind  perhaps  to  battle  with 
an  even  worse  predicament,  that  prevented  me  from  mak¬ 
ing  my  needs  known  to  the  kitchen  force. 

At  three  in  the  afternoon  the  limited  had  passed 
Sheridan,  Wyoming,  and  when  at  half  past  five  it  had  left 
Hardin,  I  jubilated  as  this,  the  last  scheduled  stop  made 
by  the  train  was  only  fifty-eight  miles  from  Billings. 


40 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


The  serving  of  the  dinner  had  been  finished  in  the 
dining  car  when  the  limited  entered  a  lone  siding  located 
less  than  a  dozen  miles  from  my  destination  to  await  the 
passing  of  the  “South  East  Express.”  Taking  advantage 
of  the  delay,  some  of  the  passengers  left  the  coaches  to 
stretch  their  limbs  by  promenading  back  and  forth  upon 
the  main  line  track.  To  avert  discovery  by  the  promenaders, 
I  shifted  to  the  off-side  of  the  roof  where  I  hugged  its 
outermost  rim. 

There  I  almost  lost  my  balance  which  would  have 
meant  a  headlong  tumble  to  solid  soil,  when  I  heard  from 
below  me  on  the  ground  some  one  hail:  “Hey  there, 
fellow!  What ’re  you  doing  there  on  my  car?” 

When  I  saw  by  the  white  uniform  of  his  vocation  that 
he  was  one  of  the  chefs  of  the  dining  car,  I  humbly  pleaded : 
“Please,  cook,  don’t  inform  on  me  I  want  to  get  to  Bill¬ 
ings.” 

“How  far  have  you  come?”  inquired  the  chef  without 
committing  himself  as  to  the  course  he  would  pursue. 

“When  I  land  at  Billings  it  will  be  eight  hundred  and 
forty  miles,  sir,  ”  I  reported, 

“Have  you  hoboed  this  car  from  Lincoln?”  asked  the 
cook,  evidently  doubting  my  statement. 

“All  the  way  from  Lincoln!”  I  replied,  affirming  my 
words.  “Without  a  drink  or  a  bite  of  solids  since  I  started.” 

At  this  instant  the  express  thundered  eastward  over 
the  main  line.  Immediately  after  its  swift  passage,  the 
limited  commenced  to  withdraw  from  the  siding  and  so  put 
an  end  to  my  word  exchange  with  the  chef,  who,  ere  he 
swung  aboard  his  car  assured  me  of  his  good  intentions 
when  he  called  out:  “Don’t  fear  my  reporting  you,  bo!  I 
only  finished  my  latest  razzle  with  the  Road"  when  I  ac¬ 
cepted  this  job.”  (See  illustration,  page  31.) 

While  the  crack  train  sped  over  its  homestretch,  there 
appeared  within  the  Open  maw  of  the  ventilator  the  tur- 
baned  head  of  the  chef  I  had  spoken  to  at  the  siding. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


41 


Bert  Coleman,  the  harvest-going  hobo,  faked  stories  of  the  Road. 


42 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


"Did  you  say  you  hadn’t  had  a  bite  all  day,  sir?”  he 
laughed. 

"Six  meals,  ohe  after  another,  I  have  missed,  chef!” 

I  repeated. 

"Hoboing  is  a  rather  rough  deal,  bo!”  remarked  the 
cook  while  he  placed  a  large  tomato  can  upon  the  roof  of 
the  diner  and  beside  it,  he  deposited  a  paper  wrapped 
parcel. 

‘Look  out  that  the  cinders  don’t  spoil  the  grub, 
fellow!”  cautioned  the  chef  who  then  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
put  in  appearance,  withdrew  his  head  from  the  ventilator 
the  trap  door  of  which  he  shut  for  the  night. 

When  investigation  disclosed  the  contents  of  the  to¬ 
mato  can  to  be  deliciously  flavored  coffee  and  that  the  p>arcel 
held  an  assortment  of  sandwiches,  it  required  no  urging 
for  me  to  busy  myself  making  away  with  the  lunch  the 
generous  chef  had  donated.  By  the  time  the  limited  came 
to  stop  in  the  Union  Station  at  Billings,  I  had  finished  to 
the  last  crumb  the  handout  which  had  amply  checked 
my  hunger. 

A  haystack  furnished  me  a  bunk  for  the  night.  In 
the  morning  I  had  my  troubles  getting  hold  of  a  breakfast 
as  hoboes  galore  had  about  exhausted  the  charity  and  the 
patience  of  the  natives.  A  fellow  tramp  who  had  registered 
for  the  lottery  initiated  me  in  the  particulars  governing 
this  proceeding.  He  directed  me  to  a  notary  public  who 
supplied  me  with  an  affidavit  vouching  for  the  legality  of 
my  claim  to  citizenship.  Armed  with  this  document  I 
presented  myself  at  lottery  headquarters  and  when  there 
my  address  had  been  entered  in  a  bulky  journal,  the  ob- 
j^tive  of  my  latest  hobo  journey  had  been  obtained. 

Having  no  further  destination  in  view,  I  took  recourse 
to  a  scheme  commonly  resorted  to  by  tramps  who  lack 
a  point  to  which  to  hobo.  Returning  to  the  Union  Station, 
I  hopped  aboard  the  first  train  leaving  Billings,  irrespective 
of  direction.  The  train  I  swung  onto  turned  out  to  be  the 


The  'Snare  of  the  Road. 


43 


“North  Coast  Limited.”  I  roofed  the  dining  car  of  this 
fast  Northern  Pacific  flyer  and  when  by  noon  I  had  passed 
Livingston,  Montana,  my  hopes  soared  high  that  I  would 
reach  Helena,  the  capital  of  the  state,  where  I  intended  to 
break  my  journey. 

When  below  me  in  the  dining  car  the  serving  of  dinner 
was  in  full  swing,  a  meal  without  which  I  would  have  to 
get  along,  my  thoughts  reverted  to  the  occurrences  of  the 
preceding  day  and  fondly  lingered  on  the  treatment  I  had 
received  at  the  hands  of  the  kindly  hearted  chef  ol  the 
Puget  Sound  Limited.  This  pleasant  remembrance  gave 
rise  in  my  mind  to  a  bright  idea.  I  reasoned  that  if  I  could 
but  catch  one  of  the  chefs  of  the  North  Coast  Limited 
stepping  from  their  dining  car  and  then  tackle  him  for  a- 
handout  by  way  of  the  ventilator,  chances  seemed  favorable 
that  I  would  receive  the  gift.  Henceforward  at  every  stop 
the  limited  made,  I  leaned  far  over  the  side  of  the  car  to 
make  certain  I  would  not  fail  connecting  with  a  chef,  but 
when  the  train  had  left  Logan,  the  last  halt  east  of  Helena, 

I  admitted  that  my  scheme  had  turned  out  a  rank  failure 
by  the  simple  circumstance  that  none  of  the  cooks  had  left 
the  kitchen  compartment,  at  least  not  on  the  side  of  the 
train  I  had  carefully  guarded. 

Clanging  and  scouring  of  kitchen  ware  told  when 
dinner  had  been  concluded.  The  train  then  was  speeding 
less  than  ten  miles  from  the  capital  of  Montana,  the  arc 
lights  of  which  I  discerned  on  the  horizon.  Aware  that  the 
conductor  would  not  allow  himself  to  lose  time  by  halting 
the  train  to  bounce  a  trespasser  when  the  assistance  of  a 
metropolitan  police  department  was  so  convenient  at  hand, 

I  decided  to  chance  my  liberty  against  the  obtaining  of  a 
lunch  from  the  kitchen  of  the  North  Coast  Limited. 

Crawling  alongside  the  ventilator,  I  drummed  with 
my  fingers  on  the  roof  until  the  chefs  turned  their  eyes 
ceilmgward  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  noise.  When  they 
took  note  of  my  presence,  I  asked  to  be  given  a  handout. 


44 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


“Are  you  that  hungry,  fellow?”  laughed  the  chief  of 
the  chefs  who^n  the  nature  of  my  plea  had  told  that  I  was 
hoboing  the  limited. 

“Came  with  you  from  Billings,  sir,”  I  informed  him. 

“You  should  have  tackled  us  right  after  luncheon, 
bo,”  interjected  the  second  cook.  “Then  we  had  a  lot  of 
good  things  on  hand  while  now  the  heavy  patronage  we 
had  at  dinner  has  almost  cleared  us  out  on  edibles.” 

“We  may  be  able  to  pick  up  a  snack  for  you,”  offered 
the  first  chef,  “but  in  the  meantime  you  had  better  get  away 
from  the  opening  so  our  dining  car  steward  won’t  get  wind 
of  the  affair.” 

“Much  obliged  to  you,  boys!”  I  thanked  the  friendly 
fellows  and  then  obeying  the  recommendation,  I  moved 
beyond  the  ventilator  from  which  ere  long  was  handed  out 
a  parcel  containing  the  promised  lunch. 

Minutes  aboard  a  fast  running  train  are  readily  trans¬ 
lated  into  miles  and  even  then  the  engineer  of  the  limited 
was  whistling  for  the  yard  limit  of  Helena.  While  the 
train  slackened  speed,  I  climbed  from  the  roof  of  the  vesti¬ 
bule  of  the  diner  and  when  the  cars  were  running  at  a  rate 
where  I  thought  I  could  afford  the  risk,  I  dropped  to  the 
ground  and  then  made  my  getaway  from  the  railroad 
property. 

Hugging  the  handout  as  if  it  was  worth  the  ransom  of 
a  king,  I  followed  an  avenue  leading  to  the  seven  hills  upon 
the  crests  and  sides  of  which  beautiful  Helena  had  been 
built.  Halfway  to  town  and  at  a  poorly  lighted  spot  I  was 
accosted  by  a  seedy  looking  individual. 

“Would  you  mind  assisting  a  poor  devil  with  the  price 
of  a  meal,  kind  friend?”  whined  the  stranger. 

“Come  along  with  me,  sir,”  I  invited,  then  raising  the 
parcel  I  carried  so  the  hungry  one  could  view  its  ample 
size,  I  continued,  “I  reckon  there  is  sufficient  grub  in 
here  to  satisfy  both  of  us.” 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


45 


The  fellow  went  along.  By  his  paucity  of  words,  I 
surmised  that  he  must  have  failed  to  properly  understand 
the  purport  of  my  remark.  Therefore  when  we  turned  into 
the  lot  of  a  lumber  yard  which  we  passed,  while  I  spread 
the  contents  of  the  parcel  on  a  board,  I  explained  to  my 
guest  how  I  had  come  in  possession  of  the  lunch.  Then  I 
kindly  invited  him  to  share  with  me  whatever  I  had  to 
offer. 

Instead  of  helping  himself,  the  one  who  had  claimed  to 
be  starving,  snarled:  “What  did  you  take  me  to  be,  guy? 
Did  you  think  me  capable  of  scoffing  a  poke-out  you  have 
bummed  from  some  one  else.  Now  I  loiow  I  made  a  bad 
break  when  in  the  belief  you  were  a  ‘gentleman,’  I  stopped 
you  in  the  avenue.” 

‘  For  the  time  being  I  was  so  completely  paralyzed^by 
the  impudence  of  the  able-bodied  panhandler,  that  in 
helpless  silence  I  watched  him  strutting  from  the  lumber 
yard  as  if  he  were  a  lord  and  not  the  low  down  beggar  which 
he  was.  I  regained  full  control  of  my  fighting  faculties 
only  when  he  had  stepped  beyond  my  view.  Then  furiously 
angered  to  have  received  a  rank  affront  in  payment  for 
an  unselfish  charity,  and  bent  on  taking  vengeance,  I 
slipped  after  the  scoundrel.  But  when  I  reached  the  avenue 
I  saw  that  the  law  had  taken  this  job  off  my  hands,  as  the 
vagrant  had  made  a  second  and  greater  error  when  he 
tackled  another  “gentleman”  and  this  one  turned  out  to 
be  a  detective. 

An  empty  box,  car  furnished  me  with  lodging  for  the 
night.  At  break  of  day  I  was  routed  from  my  slumber  by 
a  watchman  who  placed  me  under  arrest.  He  marched  me 
to  the  railroad  depot  and  there  telfephoned  to  police  head¬ 
quarters,  asking  that  a  patrol  be  sent  to  the  station  for 
a  prisoner.  While  we  were  waiting  for  Helena’s  “Handy 
Wagon,”  the  attention  of  my  captor  was  diverted  for  a 
moment  from  his  duties.  Looking  for  a  chance  to  make  a 


46 


T^e  Snare  of  the  Road. 

getaway,  I  saw  a  passenger  train  departing  from  the  plat¬ 
form.  I  ran  to  catch  it,  but  such  was  the  running  rate  the 
train  had  attained  by  this  time  that  it  required  fast  foot 
work  on  my  part  to  connect  with  its  rear  coach,  while  the 
John  Law  who  had  taken  after  me  and  was  yelling  like  an 
Indian  on  the  warpath  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
train  crew,  was  soon  left  behind. 

The  train,  aboard  which  I  had  so  unexpectedly  alighted, 
was  destined  over  the  Great  Northern  Railway  to  Havre, 
Montana.  To  travel  over  this  route  meant  quite  a  detour 
in  my  westbound  journey,  but  for  obvious  reasons  I  pre¬ 
ferred  not  to  risk  a  return  to  Helena.  While  en  route,  I 
crawled  to  the  roof  of  the  dining  car  and  so  pleased  was  I 
with  having  made  a  lucky,  though  hair’s  ■  breadth  escape 
from  imprisonment,  also  profiting  from  previous  lessons, 
that  when  they  were  through  serving  breakfast  in  the  diner, 
I  boldly  braced  the  kitchen  force  for  a  liinch.  The  chefs 
provided  me  with  a  pot  of  tea  and  a  generous  layout  of 
sandwiches. 

“I  shall  tackle  you  at  luncheon  time  for  another  hand¬ 
out  gents!”  I  informed  the  chefs  when  I  returned  the  empty 
teapot  to  their  keeping  by  way  of  the  open  ventilator. 
“Provided  ere  then  they  haven’t  fired  me  off  this  car.” 

“That  hobo  has  got  his  nerve  right  along  with  him!” 
grumbled  the  dishwasher,  but  his  superiors  were  so  amused 
by  my  audacity  that  they  promised  to  look  after  my  needs 
at  midday. 

While  the  train  was  speeding  over  the  face  of  those 
falls  of  the  Missouri  River  whose  hydro-electric  pow^  has 
given  existence  to  the  thriving  manufacturing  city  of  Gr^t 
Falls,  there  came  to  me  from  the  ventilator  the  “vittels”  I 
was  expecting. 

In  the  midst  of  my  lunch  I  gave  vent  to  a  merry  laugh. 
My  jollity  had  its  inception  in  the  pleasure  I  derived  from 
the  knowledge  that  I  had  found  a  solution  for  a  trouble 
that  next  to  the  relentless  persecution  all  hobodom  had  to 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


47 


endure  at  the  hands  of  the  police,  had  proven  especially 
annoying  to  tramps  who  roofed  long  distance  passenger 
trains.  Judging  by  the  excellent  returns  I  had  gathered  from 
the  kitchen  ventilators  of  the  various  dining  cars,  no  roofer 
availing  himself  of  my  discovery  the  details  of  which  I 
intended  to  make  promptly  known  to  the  fraternity,  hence¬ 
forth  ever  needed  to  fear  of  having  to  choose  betwixt  the 
equally  impleasant  alternatives:  that  of  suffering  with 
clow  starvation  or  voluntarily  quitting  a  “good”  train  to. 
forage  for  food. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  the  train  arrived  at  Havre. 
My  leave-taking  from  this  important  junction  point  on 
the  main  line  of  the  Great  Northern  Railway  was  so  re¬ 
tarded  by  the  slick  sleuths  employed  by  this  system,  that 
it  was  past  high  noon  of  the  following  day  ere  I  finally 
contrived  to  make  my  escape  from  their  vigilance  by  roofing 
the  “Oriental  Limited.”  Leaving  Havre  the  right  of  way 
ran  through  altitudes  so  high  and  therefore  so  cool,  that 
the  chefs  found  it  unnecessary  to  open  the  ventilator  of 
their  department  and  so  nipped  in  the  bud  all  chances  of 
my  connecting  with  a  meal.  I  had  to  thank  a  lanky  cow¬ 
boy  for  getting  fired  off  the  cars  at  Rexford.  He  had 
observed  my  hiding  place  and  was  so  persistingly  pointing 
out  his  “find”  to  his  friends,  that  his  antics  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  train  crew  to  my  person. 

From  Rexford  I  roofed  the  diner  of  the  “Oregonian.” 
When  this  swift  train  had  whirled  by  Leonia,  Idaho,  and 
the  serving  of  dinner  had  come  to  an  end  in  the  diner,  I 
deemed  the  opportune  moment  to  have  arrived  to  pan¬ 
handle  the  kitchen  brigade  for  a  lunch. 

“A  handout  for  an  onery  cuss  like  you!”  excitedly 
shouted  the  first  chef  who  had  become  so  frightened  at  my 
appearance  flush  with  the  ceiling  of  the  compartment  that 
he  had  scorched  a  porterhouse  steak  beyond  redemption. 


48 


The  Snare  of  tue  Road, 


“Not  on  your  daddy’s  tintype!  And  furthermore,  if  you  j 
don’t  instantly  get  away  from  that  air  shaft,  I  shall  report 
you  to  the  conductor!” 

“You  snitch!”  shouted  I,  coming  back  at  the  cook  whose 
short  reception  made  it  certain  that  the  chances  for  collect¬ 
ing  tribute  from  the  kitchen  of  the  “Oregonian”  had  gone 
a-glimmering. 

Scarcely  had  the  ugly  word  left  my  lips,  than  the  chef 
picked  a  large  and  decidedly  overripe  tomato  from  a  platej 
that  stood  conveniently  near  and  ere  I  had  an  inkling  of; 
his  intentions,  he  let  fly  the  ancient  vegetable  at  my  face 
where  it  landed  so  well  that  its  sticky  pulp,  spreading  over,| 
my  countenance,  placed  my  eyes  out  of  commission.  ' 

Amid  the  derisive  yells  and  hooting  of  all  who  had 
witnessed  the  occurence,  I  withdrew  my  head  from  the 
ventilator  and  then  used  both  of  my  hands  to  restore  my 
vision  with  the  least  loss  of  time.  While  I  was  rubbing 
my  eyes,  runnmg  at  a  fair  rate  of  speed,  the  train  swungf 
around  a  curve  that  had  been  constructed  high  above  the 
bed  of  a  bounding  brook  on  the  steep  side  of  a  rocky  ravine/ 
An  instant  after  the  diner  had  tilted  prior  to  taking  the 
curve,  I  felt  with  horror  indescribable  that  the  centrifugal 
force  generated  by  the  swinging  of  the  car  around  the  short 
semi-circle,  at  first  slowly  and  then  with  ever  increasing 
momentum  was  forcing  my  body  across  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  narrow  and  slightly  vaulted  roof  towards  its  edge. 

Although  the  blinding  of  my  eyes  had  temporarily] 
reduced  me  to  a  state  of  absolute  helplessness,  nevertheless;] 
I  instantly  realized  my  desperate  peril.  Bravely  swinging 
my  arms  about  me,  I  groped  to  find  a  fingerhold  to  break 
the  uncanny  force  that  was  irresistibly  pushing  me  to  an 
inevitable  destruction.  My  frantic  endeavors  to  avert  a 
disaster  proved  of  no  avail  and  the  next  instant  I  felt  myseln 
catapulted  into  space.  I 

While  soaring  through  the  air,  I  prepared  myself  the^ 
best  the  awkward  situation  would  permit  for  my  sudden 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


49 


I  aviated  through  space. 


50 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


entrance  into  Kingdom-come,  which  important  event  was 
due,  so  I  felt  assured,  on  the  instant  when  my  ordinary 
human  skull  came  into  intimate  contact  with  the  opposite 
side  of  the  ravine  or  with  one  of  the  numerous  boulders 
which  liberally  studded  the  bed  that  the  waters  of  the 
brook  had  in  the  course  of  the  ages  carved  from  the  granite 
formation  of  the  region. 

Instead  of  ending  my  earthly  career  in  the  gruesome 
shape  of  a  crushed  corpse,  I  landed  so  neatly  in  the  branches 
of  a  large  tree  which  had  somehow  managed  to  find  a  rooting 
at  the  foot  of  the  ravine,  that  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
slight  abrasions,  I  received  no  marks  to  remind  me  of  my 
miraculous  escape  from  a  frightful  death. 

-•  When  I  had  leisurely  finished  the  task  that  had  been 
so  strangely  interrupted,  that  of  restoring  my  eyes  to  use¬ 
fulness,  I  descended  to  the  ground  and  then  ascending  the 
side  of  the  ravine  to  the  railroad  track,  I  followed  it  in  the 
direction  of  the  setting  sun.  On  passing  the  first  mile¬ 
post  by  a  comparison  of  the  mileage  it  recorded,  I  found 
that  I  was  some  miles  west  of  Bonner’s  Ferry,  Idaho,  a 
town  at  which  all  trains  stopped  to  take  on  water. 

The  light  of  the  long  midsummer  evening  had  begun 
to  merge  into  dusk,  when  I  heard  ahead  of  where  I  was 
walking  the  rumbling  of  what  I  believed  to  be  an  approach¬ 
ing  train.  As  the  echoes  became  more  distinct,  I  realized 
I  had  made  an  error  in  my  reckoning  for  I  distinguished  the 
thumping  of  the  levers  of  a  man-propelled  hand  car.  Re¬ 
membering  that  my  grimy  countenance  was  in  no  fit  con¬ 
dition  to  be  viewed  by  others,  I  hurriedly  left  the  right  of 
way  and  took  refuge  in  an  adjacent  woodland  where  I  hid 
behind  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 

From  where  I  watched  the  passage  of  the  hand  car,  I 
noted  that  it  was  one  of  the  kind  commonly  used  by  track 
laborers  to  propel  themselves  to  and  from  their  daily  task. 
A  full  complement  of  laborers  was  aboard  the  car,  but 
instead  of  leisurely  pumping  at  the  levers  as  was  the  wont 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


61 


of  their  class,  the  men  were  exerting  themselves  to  such  a 
degree  that  I  judged  some  powerful  incentive  was  holding 
them  to  their  work. 

Only  when  the  hand  car  hove  abreast  of  my  hiding 
place  did  I  take  note  that  to  it  had  been  attached  a  trailer 
upon  which  several  men  were  squatting  who  I  took  to  be 
railroad  officials  bent  on  a  hunting  lark  by  the  angle  indi¬ 
cating  instant  readiness  at  which  each  held  a  rifle  while  at 
the  same  time  eagerly  scanning  the  environs  of  the  right  of 
way  for  a  target. 

The  decision  received  a  jolt  when  the  trailer  sped  by 
my  retreat  and  I  saw  that  each  hunter  had  a  metallic  star 
pinned  to  his  coat  over  his  left  breast.  This  brought  me 
to  opine  that  perchance  the  men  were  members  of  a  posse, 
which,  to  take  charge  of  my  mangled  remains,  had  left 
Bonner’s  Ferry  when  the  conductor  of  the  “Oregonian” 
had  reported  that  another  trespasser  had  met  with  his 
finish.  Jumping  to  my  feet,  I  hurried  to  the  track  intending 
to  make  known  my  marvelous  escape  from  a  mortal  acci¬ 
dent,  but  ere  I  had  managed  to  climb  over  the  barbed  wire 
right  of  way  fencing,  the  cars  had  sped  from  my  view  around 
a  curve. 

Believing  that  I  would  have  ample  time  until  the 
return  of  the  posse  to  make  myself  look  presentable,  I  de¬ 
scended  to  the  side  of  the  creek  to  wash  myself.  While  I 
was  still  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  iny  toilet,  overhead 
and  running  at  a  rapid  rate  of  speed  on  a  down  grade,  the 
hand  cars  passed  homeward  bound.  Although  I  lustily 
shouted  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  men  aboard  the  cars, 
my  efforts  proved  futile  as  the  racket  raised  by  the  thump¬ 
ing  of  the  levers  drowned  my  voice.  Feeling  much  put  out 
because  I  had  missed  this  chance  to  get  a  lift,  I  climbed 
back  to  the  track  and  wearily  trudged  onward. 

It  was  dark  when  a  freight  run  overtook  me  just  as  I 
had  arrived  at  the  yard  of  Bonner’s  Ferry.  Although  I 
hurried,  the  train  had  taken  on  water  and  was  leaving  town 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


S2 

when  I  luckily  found  a  riding  place  upon  a  truck  of  the 
caboose.  Thus  passing  through  the  yard  and  by  the 
station,  I  was  impressed  by  the  number  of  John  Laws  I  saw 
nighthawking  in  a  small  burg  the  size  of  Bonner’s  Ferry. 
I  took  especial  notice  that  the  officers  were 'busily  frisking 
about  just  as  if  they  were  searching  for  a  lost  but  valuable 
something. 

In  the  morning  as  the  freight  train  slowed  down  on 
crossing  the  city  line  of  Spokane,  I  quit  the  truck  and  then 
following  a  highway,  I  walked  into  the  city.  Sauntering 
through  the  streets,  by  chance  I  heard  a  newspaper  boy 
calling  out  his  wares. 

“Extree!  Extree!  All  about  the  big  train  holdup!” 
shrilly  shouted  the  newsboy,  arousing  with  his  cries  my- 
curiosity  to  learn  more  of  the  affair. 

Not  commanding  the  wherewithal  to  purchase  a 
paper,  when  the  lad  passed  me  in  the  street,  I  took  the 
liberty  to  slyly  glance  at  the  head  lines  of  the  topmost 
newspaper  of  a  bundle  he  carried,  tucked  under  his  arm. 

“Won’t  you  buy  a  copy  and  read  aU  about  the  holdup, 
sir?”  teased  the  little  merchant  who  on  observing  my 
inquisitiveness  and  believing  me  to  be  a  prospective  cus¬ 
tomer,  had  stopped  to  consummate  a  sale. 

“I’ve  just  landed  in  Spbkane  and  am  down  and  out, 
sonny,”  I  frankly  confessed,  and  then  when  I  saw  a  sym¬ 
pathetic  expression  flitting  over  his  countenance,  I  had 
the  nerve  to  ask  that  he  allow  me  to  take  a  p^p  at  the 
leading  article. 

The  boy  offered  no  objection  to  the  granting  of  this 
favor,  and  handing  me  one  of  his  newspapers,  he  patiently 
waited  while  I  read  aloud:  Late  yesterday  afternoon  the 
valiant  dining  car  chefs  of  the  “Oregonian”  foiled  a  train 
agent  by  hurling  the  desperado  off  the  roof  of  their  car 
when  the  criminal  attempted  to  achieve  his  evil  purposes 
by  climbing  into  the  open  ventilator  of  the  diner’s  kitchen. 
A  posse  which  quickly  collected  at  Bonner’s  Ferry,  has 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


53 


searched  in  vain  for  a  trace  of  the  rascal,  but  as  aJI  avenues 
of  escape  are  guarded  by  heavily  armed  men  who  are 
anxious  to  earn  the  reward  of  five  hundred  dollars  that  was 
promptly  offered  by  the  Great  Northern  System  for  his 
capture,  dead  or  alive,  we  expect  any  moment  to  have  extras 
in  the  streets  chronicling  his  apprehension  by  brave  citi¬ 
zens  — ,  ran  the  beginning  of  the  article  when  the  little 
merchant  interrupted  my  reading  by  loudly  exclaiming: 
"Gee!  But  them  cooks  must  be  some  great  scouts!” 

“They  certainly  are  that  if  they  reveal  now  the  truth 
of  the  affair,”  I  savagely  growled  while  I  remembered  that 
the  same  mushy  vegetable  which  had  almost  managed  to 
snuff  out  my  life,  had  succeeded  in  boosting  the  chefs  of 
the  “Oregonian”  into  the  ranks  of  heroes. 

“Wouldn’t  you  like  to  earn  the  nice  money,  fellow?” 
prattled  the  lad  who  had  fortunately  failed  to  become 
interested  in  the  suspicious  comment  I  had  made  in  my 
juat  anger. 

“I  would  rather  tackle  a  mad  wildcat,  kid!”  I  cooly 
replied,  but  at  the  same  time  I  felt  the  creeping  of 
my  skin  that  at  that  moment  either  whole  or  perforated 
with  bullets  was  worth  five  hundred  dollars  to  any  human 
with  the  exception  of  its  present  possessor. 

Realizing  that  I  had  no  business  to  tarry  an  unneces¬ 
sary  minute  so  near  to  the  place  of  the  alleged  train  holdup, 

I  I  returned  the  newspaper  to  the  boy,  thanked  him  for  its 
loan  and  then  hurried  away,  intent  on  removing  myself 
in  least  time  beyond  the  limits  of  Spokane. 

Taking  again  to  the  highways,  I  followed  them  until 
I  arrived  at  a  steep  railroad  grade  where  I  boarded  a  west- 
j  bound  freight  train.  Traveling  only  at  night,  I  reached 
j  Seattle  without  interference.  I  promptly  quit  the  me^op- 
olis  of  the  Puget  Sound  Country  for  Tacoma  and  as  quickly 
departed  hence  for  Portland  and  other  points  further  south¬ 
ward.  Even  there  I  did  not  allow  myself  to  linger  as  eveo^- 
where  I  tarried  there  stared  at  me  from  the  walls  of  waiting 


54 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


rooms,  post  offices  and  other  public  places,  posters  proclaim¬ 
ing  the  reward  of  the  Great  Northern  Railway.  These 
advertisements  and  the  comments  I  heard  made  in  con¬ 
nection  with  their  display,  had  everything  to  do  with  my 
immediate  departure  from  the  Pacific  Coast  for  territory 
wherein  I  felt  assured  that  my  liberty  and  perhaps  even  ray 
precious  neck  were  not  menaced. 

It  was  quite  a  while  ere  I  commanded  again  the  courage 
necessary  to  return  to  the  roofing  of  passenger  coaches, 
but  ever  since  I  have  conscientiously  abstained  from 
panhandling  handouts  from  the  ventilators  of  dining  car 
kitchens,  for  I  had  lived  to  learn  that  it  was  preferable,  by 
far,  to  suffer  while  en  route  from  inconveniences,  than  to 
risk  getting  tangled  up  with  chefs  who  proved  capable  of 
converting  an  ancient  tomato  into  a  ladder  to  fame. 

The  incidents  of  the  queer  adventure  had  passed 
into  oblivion,  when  one  day  while  roving  through  grand 
“Old  Virginia”  I  called  for  my  mail  at  a  post  office  to  which 
I  had  had  my  correspondence  forwarded.  I  almost  collapsed 
with  fear  when  the  clerk  in  charge  of  the  General  Delivery 
handed  me  a  franked  letter,  which  although  it  bore  my 
correct  name  and  address,  had  been  posted  by  one  of  the 
governmental  departments  at  Washington,  D.  C.  Believ¬ 
ing  that  the  national  authorities  somehow  had  managed 
to  ferret  out  my  identity  and  now  were  trying  to  take  me 
to  task  for  interfering  with  the  schedule  of  a  mail  train, 
which  the  “Oregonian”  was,  I  tucked  the  letter  beneath 
my  coat  and  then  left  the  post  office  to  seek  a  secluded  spot. 

When  I  found  a  place  which  seemed  secure  against 
untoward  surprises,  I  tremblingly  opened  the  envelope  and 
extracted  the  letter  it  contained.  No  sooner  had  I  glanced 
through  the  message,  than  I  began  to  leap  in  the  air,  yell 
like  a  madman,  and  enact  other  manifestations  of  supreme 
joy  which  brought  passers-by  running  to  where  I  was 
cutting  the  capers  to  investigate  my  sanity.  I  stopped  my 
antics  only  when  the  throng  of  curious  people  had  assumed 


f 


The  Snare  of  the  Road.  55 

such  huge  proportions  that  it  brought  home  to  me  the 
danger  of  arrest  should  some  bluecoat  take  stock  of  the 
commotion.  Explaining  to  the  strangers  that  the  letter 
I  was  waving  aloft  in  my  hand  was  a  notification 
from  the  government  that  I  had  won  a  homestead 
at  the  drawing  of  the  Billings  lottery,  I  accepted  their 
congratulations  at  my  good  fortune  and  then  made  my 
escape  from  the  multitude. 


Everything  was  coming  my  way. 


When  the  pleasure  of  having  achieved  my  heart’s 
desire  had  become  calmed  so  far  as  to  permit  an  intelligent 
study  of  the  letter,  I  found  a  postscript  appended  to  it 
which  contained  several  items  of  importance.  Among 
others  was  a  note  making  it  obligatory  on  the  winner  of 
prize  No.  1467  to  personally  appear  at  the  Billings  land 
office  to  have  his  claim  legally  confirmed.  Another  para¬ 
graph  explained  that  to  obtain  a  valid  title  from  the  govern- 


56 


The  Sna^e  of  the  Road. 


ment  the  claimant  was  required  to  reside  on  the  tract  for 
a  period  of  no  less  tjian  six  months  annually  for  five  con¬ 
secutive  years.  A  third  appendix  in  terms  which  made  a 
misinterpretation  impossible,  warned  that  a  least  infrac¬ 
tion  of  the  rules  governing  the  land  distribution  by  lottery 
would  automatically  result  in  the  reverting  of  the  priac 
to  the  federal  authorities. 

This  last  mentioned,  rather  caustic  reminder  of  the 
responsibilities  which  had  so  suddenly  been  thrust  upon 
my  shoulders,  caused  me  to  glance  at  the  date  of  the  letter. 
Only  then  I  was  to  become  aware  that  for  almost  two  weeks 
the  notification  had  trailed  me  crisscross  the  land  from  one 
General  Delivery  to  another.  Instantly  realizing  that  I 
had  not  even  a  moment  to  waste  if  I  desired  to  put  myself 
in  appearance  within  the  time  allowance  at  the  lottery 
headquarters,  I  fairly  raced  to  the  nearest  railroad  station 
and  soon  had  started  on  what  I  fervently  prayed  would  be 
my  last  hobo  journey. 

Looking  much  the  worse  from  the  loss  of  sleep  and 
many  meals  but  with  a  day  to  spare  until  the  expiration 
of  the  time  limit,  I  arrived  at  Billings.  When  my  identity 
had  been  duly  verified  at  the  land  office,  I  was  handed  a 
map  whereon  had  been  marked  the  location  of  my  prize 
farm.  Highly  elated  that  with  the  exception  of  the  actual 
taking  possession  of  the  tract,  I  had  completely  complied 
with  the  complicated  rulings  of  the  land  gamble,  I  returned 
to  the  street  where  I  had  a  native  direct  me  to  my  allotment 
which  was  located  some  thirty  miles  to  the  northwest  of 
Billings. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  city  line,  I  entered  the  ex-Indian 
reservation  which  was  dotted  as  far  as  my  vision  would 
reach  with  tents,  slab  shanties  and  other  temporary  shelters 
which  the  prize  winners  of  the  lottery  had  constructed  to 
house  themselves  and  families. 

I  remember  stopping  at  a  dugout  to  panhandle  a 
lunch,  where  I  found  a  squatter  woman  and  her  nuineroiws 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


57 


brood  of  tow  headed  youngsters  occupying  the  semi- 
cavem.  The  widow  treated  me  so  decently  that  I  promised 
to  return  in  due  time  to  balance  her  kindness  with  a  wagon 
load  of  the  best  my  homestead  had  produced. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day. the  numbers 
marked  on  the  stakes  placed  by  the  surveyors  announced 
I  was  approaching  my  destination.  The  rays  of  the  setting 


The  squatter  woman  proved  a  noble  soul. 


aim  had  commenced  to  slant ,  over  the  erstwhile  hunting 
ground  of  semi-savages  when  I  placed  foot  upon  the  one 
hundred  and  sixty  acres  which  the  paternal  government 
had  presented  to  me  by  means  of  a  game  of  chance. 

So  shocked  was  I  with  the  sight  my  eyes  beheld  that 
I  hurriedly  inspected  the  numbers  marked  on  the  corner 
stakes  of  my  allotment  and  only  when  I  had  assured  myself 


58 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


that  “No.  1467”  was  written  on  each  of  the  four  posts,  1 
knew  for  a  ceitainty  that  I  had  not  erred  but  had  come 
into  my  own. 

While  I  wistfully  scanned  the  acreage  of  my  private 
domain,  by  chance  I  espied  a  large  rock  protruding  from 
the  ground  near  the  center  of  'the  tract.  I  took  a  seat  upon 
this  stone  an,d  then  had  another  long  look  at  my  property 
from  the  spot  whereon  in  the  course  of  a  few  prosperous 
years  it  had  been  my  fond  intention  to  build  for  my  family- 
to-be  a  cosy  home  from  the  wide  verandas  of  which  I  had 
hoped  to  gaze  over  the  broad'  acres  of  my  homestead. 

Only  when  I  recalled  to  my  memory  this  and  other 
lofty  air  castles  I  had  so  deftly  built  in  the  course  of  many 
a  pleasant  daylight  dream,  came  to  poor  me  the  crushing 
realization  how  mercilessly  I  had  been  taken  in  with  a 
piece  of  Mother  Earth  that  to  secure  I  had  braved  the 
perils  and  privations  incident  to  three  almost  transcontin- 
nental  hobo  trips,  not  to  mention  the  hazards  connected 
with  the  return  journey  I  was  yet  to  negotiate. 

The  farther  my  thoughts  ranged  backward  to  all  I 
had  yearned  should  be  a  corking  fine  future  after  the  many 
years  I  had  wantonly  wasted  hearkening  to  the  call  of  the 
Road,  the  more  mushy  I  began  to  feel  within  my  outraged 
soul.  In  the  end  the  smashing  over  every  hope  I  had 
fostered  so  depressed  my  spirits  that  I  commenced  to 
blubber  as  if  I  were  a  severely  punished  child. 

“Howling  desolation”  would  hardly  describe  the  con¬ 
dition  of  the  crusty  surface  of  my  homestead  and  all  the 
others  adjoining  it  as  far  as  my  vision  reached  judging 
by  general  appearances.  Nowhere  could  I  discern  a  single 
blad^  of  grass  sprouting  from  the  ground,  nor  any  other 
visible  sign  of  animal  or  vegetable  life,  for  that  matter. 
The  |and  for  miles  was  spread  over  steep,  rock  ribbed  moun¬ 
tain  ^ides  upon  which  had  been  scattered  so  many  boulders 
of  eatery  dimension  that  it  brought  to  my  mind  the  odd 
idea  mat  Satan  must  have  temporarily  deserted  his  hellish 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


59 


headquarters  to  provide  humanity  for  all  time  to  come  with 
an  example  of  what  could  be  done  in  the  way  of  making  a 
tract  of  land  absolutely  worthless  for  agricultural  purposes. 

Retracing  my  steps,  I  dragged  myself  back  to  Billings, 
whence  I  had  departed  buoyed  by  a  sublime  hope  for  a 
,  better  life  and  to  which  I  now  returned  a  human  wreck 
in  whose  soul  the  last  spark  of  ambition  had  been  extin¬ 
guished  forever. 


Misery  and  desolation. 


Oftimes  since,  and  especially  when  I  chance  to  be 
camping  out-doors  in  the  solitude  of  the  night,  the  trend 
of  my  thoughts  revert  to  the  days  of  my  youth  and  I 
wonder  if  the  Old  Folks  still  are  among  the  living,  and  if 
they  are,  then  if  they  have  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
one  of  their  offspring  must  have  been  endowed  with  a 
marble  heart  to  be  capable  of  voluntarily  leading  the 
revolting  existence  of  the  common  tramp.  I  generally 


60 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 

finish  these  reveries  by  cursing  the  memory  of  the  agent 
who  had  charge  of  the  village,  railroad  station  and  had 
allowed  boys  to  loaf  on  the  premises  and  so  had  furnished 
them  with  first-rate  prospects  of  taking  the  leading  role 
in  a -tragedy  similar  to  the  one  for  which  I  have  to  thank 
him  —  and  him  exclusively. 


^HE  silence  of  the  speaker  announced  that  he  had 
terminated  the  entertainment.  When  he  had  bowed  a 
farewell  to  his  auditors,  Mr.  Davis  led  him  to  the 
door  of  the  residence  and  there  presented  him  with  double 
the  compensation  he  had  been  promised. 

“I  thank  you  for  your  generosity,  sir,”  stammered  the 
wanderer,  surprised  to  be  treated  humanely.  “I  am  at  your 
command  if  there  is  anything  else  you  desire  me  to  do.” 

“You  will  earn  my  appreciation,  sir,”  he  was  informed 
by  the  master  of  the  house,  “if  you  will  trouble  yourself  by 
directing  to  my  home  fellow  tramps  who  are  capable  of 
exposing  the  inner  workings  of  the  life  they  are  leading  in 
as  admirable  a  manner  as  you  have  accomplished  it  this 
evening.” 

The  wayfarer  promised  to  fulfill  the  mission,  and  then 
bidding  Mr.  Davis  a  cheery  “Good  Night,”  he  went  his 
way. 

Returning  to  the  parlor,  Mr.  Davis  was  greeted  by 
Gerald  with  a  frank  admission:  “You  were  in  the  right, 
father,  when  you  cautioned  me  so  repeatedly  against  taking 
stock  in  the  yarns  Bert  Coleman  and  other  unprincipled 
tempters  had  told  to  deceive  me  into  believing  them  to  be 
actual  adventures  of  the  Road.  Now  that  I  have  heard 
the  unfortunate  outcast  relate  his  personal  expadences, 
I  am  firmly  convinced  that  the  rascals  only  mentioned  euch 
misleading  allurements  of  the  lawless  hobo  life  as  would 
have  made  any  lad  yearn  to  take  a  fling  at  it.” 


i 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


61 


“I  am  proud  of  you  for  acknowledging  your  mistakes, 
son,”  praised  Mr.  Davis.  “But  tell  me,  Gerald,  have  you 
or  your  chums  ever  seriously  attempted  to  fathom  the 
purpose  that  actuated  the  heartless  scamp  in  leaving  noth- 
mg  untried  to  sicken  you  lads  of  your  good  homes  and  loving 
parents?” 

“Such  a  thought  has  never  crossed  our  minds,  father,” 
confessed  the  younger  Davis. 

“Has  Coleman  ever  dropped  hints  indicating  that  fie 
would  like  to  have  you  boys  hobo  with  him  to  the  harvest 
country?”  interrogated  the  elder  Davis  who  all  along  had 
nursed  this  suspicion. 

“He  has,  sir,”  guiltily  sighed  the  young  man.  “And 
we  lads  have  pledged  ourselves  to  hobo  at  the  beginning 
of  our  summer  vacation  under  Coleman’s  leadership  to  the 
western  wheat  fields  from  where  with  our  pockets  bulging 
with  money  we  earned  in  the  harvest,  we  were  to  return 
here  in  time  to  be  on  hand  when  schoobopens  for  the  fall 
term.” 

“Has  Coleman  explained  to  you  that  boys  of  your  build 
are  never  hired  where  able-bodied  laborers  are  expected  to 
exert  themselves  to  the  limit  of  their  power  of  endurance 
while  toiling  from  before  dawn  until  after  dusk  through 
the  scorching  hot  and  seemingly  endless  summer  days  in 
the  dust  permeated  atmosphere  of  the  shadeless  wheat 
fields?”  questioned  Mr.  Davis. 

“He  never  broached  the  points  you  scored,  sir,”  replied 
the  lad,  a  perceptible  lighting  of  whose  countenance  gave 
proof  that  at  last  the  words  of  his  father  had  been  driven 
home. 

“Then  see  that  henceforth  my  warnings  are  heeded, 
for  in  almost  every  instance  where  boys  under  the  guidance 
of  tramps  hoboed  to  the  harvest  fields,  their  next  misstep 
usually  was  the  Road  and  everlasting  perdition!  was  the 
final  passage  of  the  conversation  between  sire  and  son  ere 
the  family  retired  for  the  night. 


62 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


IN  the  morning  and  prior  to  his  leaving  the  home  for 
his  place  of  business,  Mrs.  Davis  asked  her  husband 
what  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Ridder’s  unique  scheme. 
“Don’t  let  a  hobo  who  knows  how  to  tell  stories  get 
away  from  our  door,  wife!”  he  laughed.  I  actually  believe 
that  a  few  other  lectures  of  the  sort  delivered  by  Arkansas 
Jimmy,  should  suffice  to  forever  knock  out  all  false  glamor 
and  romance  from  a  most  miserable  existence  which  ^Cole¬ 
man  has  described  in  such  deceptive  colors  that  had  it  not 
been  for  our  rare  good  fortune  to  check  his  evil  designs  by 
accepting  in  full  the  advice  of  our  neighbor,  he  certainly 
would  have  encompassed  our  Gerald’s  ruin.’ 

To  obey  the  more  conscientiously  her  husband’s  in¬ 
structions,  Mrs.  Davis  personally  met  all  transient  callers 
at  her  residence.  Two  hoboes  were  sent  on  their  way. 
One  was  intoxicated  and  the  other  had  been  released  only 
lately  from  a  penal  institution  where  he  had  served  a  long 
term  on  a  charge  of  vagrancy  and  so  utterly  foul  were  the 
garments  he  wore,  that  the  lady  of  the  house  feared  to  incur 
the  risk  of  having  him  visit  in  her  sanitary  home.  In  the 
forenoon  of  the  following  Sunday  a  third  member  of  the 
hoboing  fraternity  knocked  at  the  kitchen  entrance. 

‘There  isn’t  a  bite  left  of  breakfast  and  we  haven’t 
begun  to  prepare  dinner,  my  good  man,”  said  Mrs.  Davis, 
believing  she  had  correctly  surmised  the  nature  of  his  call. 

It  proved  to  her  a  decided  shock  to  hear  the  stranger 
politely  state  that  he  had  breakfasted,  and  merely  had  come 
to  deliver  a  personal  message  to  the  master  of  the  house. 

When  Mr.  Davis  came  to  the  kitchen  stoop,  the  man 
handed  him  a  slip  of  paper  whereon  had  been  scrawled  this 
message: 

Kind  Sir : — Nevada  Tom  can  relate  stories  of 
the  kind  which  will  prove  pleasing  to  your  folks. 
Give  him  a  show  to  prove  my  recommendation. 

Yours  truly, 

Arkansas  Jimmy. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


63 


*'If  you  won’t  mind  a  little  waiting,  you  may  have  your 
dinner,  sir,”  proposed  Mr.  Davis,  “and  this  evening  after 
you  have  had  your  supper  at  our  house,  we  shall  have  you 
entertain  us  with  a  lecture  based  on  your  experiences.” 

The  rover  accepted  this  offer. 

While  Mr.  Davis  was  dining  with  his  family,  he  in¬ 
formed  them  that  he  had  engaged  a  second  tramp  to  enter¬ 
tain  them  after  supper  in  the  parlor.  While  this  announce¬ 
ment  was  greeted  with  expressions  of  pleasure  by  the  other 
members  of  the  household,  it  caused  Beatrice,  the  eldest 
Miss  Davis,  to  complain:  “What  shall  I  do,  father?  I 
have  promised  to  be-the  guest  this  evening  of  the  Misses 
Cameron,  and  still,  I  wouldn’t  want  to  miss  the  lecture 
by  the  hobo  for  anything.” 

“Why  not  have  the  fellow  give  his  talk  this  afternoon, 
sir?”  Gerald  broke  in.  “This  change  of  time  would  permit 
my  fetching  home  some  of  my  chums  to  whom  I  repeated 
what  I  remembered  of  the  story  Arkansas  Jimmy  narrated, 
and  though  all  had  implicitly  believed  Coleman,  they  re¬ 
fused  to  give  credence  to  the  statements  of  the  genuine 
tramp.” 

Their  father  promised  to  see  what  could  be  done. 
When  the  box  car  tourist,  had  dined,  Mr.  Davis  inquired 
if  it  would  be  satisfactory  to  him  if  the  time  of  his  engage¬ 
ment  was  changed  to  an  earlier  and  more  convenient  hour. 

“Xhe  prompter  I  get  done  with  this  talk  feast,  the 
better  it  will  please  me,  sir,”  grinned  Nevada  Tom.  Ever 
since  I  freighted  it  into  this  burg  I  have  been  trailed  by  the 
local  police  who  seem  anxious  to  get  something  on  me  so 
they  may  lock  me  up.” 

“If  that’s  the  case,  you  may  begin  your  lecture  as 
soon  as  we  have  arranged  the  parlor  for  the  entertainment, 
sir,”  he  was  informed  by  Mr.  Davis  who  turned  to  go  but 

was  recalled  by  the  vagabond. 

“Do  you  wish  me  to  commence  the  talk  with  stating  how 

I  come  to  be  a  wanderluster,  sir?”  inquired  the  wayfarer. 


64 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“Arkansas  Jimmy  has  given  us  such  a  good  account 
of  the  process  that  a  repetition  should  prove  wearisome 
history,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Davis.  “Therefore  I  should  prefer 
if  you  would  recount  interesting  episodes  of  your  career. 
This  should  prove  an  easy  task,  provided  you  confine 
yourself  to  subjects  and  language  appreciable  to  the  ladies 
of  my  household.” 

When  the  hobo  had  promised  to  comply  with  these 
provisions,  Mr.  Davis  left  him  to  inform  his  family  of  the 
change  in  the  hour  of  the  lecture. 

While  his  father  busied  himself  looking  after  the  stag¬ 
ing  of  the  entertainment,  Gerald  Davis  hurried  from  the 
house  to  gather  those  of  his  friends  he  could  readily  find. 
Returning  to  his  home  with  the  lads  who  had  consented  to 
attend  the  lecture,  he  found  all  arrangements  had  been 
finished  for  its  immediate  commencement. 

The  traveler  was  led  into  the  parlor  by  the  master  of 
the  house  who  acquainted  him  with  his  auditors  and  when 
this  formality  had  been  observed,  the  hobo  related  the 
following  episode  of  his  career. 


f 


) 

'  The  Snare  of  the  Road.  65 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  THE  SECOND  TRAMP. 


“Lights  and  Shadows  of  the  Road.” 

IN  the  early  part  of  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and 
one,  a  Captain  Lucas  made  the  discovery  that  an 
immense  pool  of  mineral  oil  underlay  ‘'Spindle  Top” 
by  which  odd  name  was  locally  known  a  hillock  located  in 
the  otherwise  level  Mexican  Gulf  Coast  Country  of  Texas, 
a  few  miles  to  the  south  of  the  thriving  city  of  Beaumont. 
Ere  long  numerous  steam  drills  had  penetrated  the  crust 
of  earth  overlying  the  subterranean  lake  of  crude  oil,  which 
fact  in  every  instance  was  amply  attested  by  a  stream  of 
the  amber  colored  fluid  gushing  skyward  higher  even  than 
were  the  loftiest  of  the  derricks  which  thickly  studded  the 
territory  covered  by  the  oil  field. 

Every  advancement  of  a  prospect  from  a  mere  hole  in 
the  ground  to  a.  bonafide  producing  oil  well  had  in  its  train 
the  hoisting  of  lucky  speculators  from  the  humdrum  exist¬ 
ence  of  ordinary  mortals  to  the  level  of  captains  of  industry, 
and  in  some  instances,  to  the  ranks  of  full  fledged  million¬ 
aires.  The  tales  which  went  abroad  in  the  land  of  investors 
in  oil  rising  almost  overnight  to  the  command  of  fortunes, 
promptly  resulted  in  setting  the  venturesome  portion  of 
the  population  aflame  with  what  was  commonly  termed 
;  “oil  fever.”  Soon  every  passenger  train  speeding  in  the 
1  direction  of  Beaumont  carried  capacity  loads  of  people 
;  who  were  hurrying  to  reach  the  El  Dorado  of  the  Latter 
I  Day  where  they  hoped  to  acquire  quick  wealth, 
i  Closely  following  in  the  wake  of  those  who  made  the 
I  pilgrimage  to  the  new  oil  field  as  the  legitimate  patrons  of 
i  the  railroads,  but  traveling  by  illegal  methods  came  the 
I  riffraff  of  the  continent.  Repres^ted  foremost  in  numerical 
:  strength  among  the  outpour  of  the  slums  and  other  shady 

i  byways  of  North  America  wert  the  Brethren  of  the  Road. 

I  . 

1 

i  ■ 


66 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


Chow  Billy  and  I  were  rumaging  over  the  western 
section  of  the  state  of  Nebraska  when  the  oil  excitement 
held  the  country  in  its  tightest  grip.  He  was  the  first  one 
of  our  partnership  to  fall  a  victim  to  the  oil  fever  and  I 
judged  his  attack  of  the  malady  to  be  a  most  natural 
visitation,  as  from  confidences  he  had  revealed  for  my 
amusement,  Chow  Billy  must  have  been  all  his  life  afflicted 
with  an  adventurous  inclination. 

At  one  time  in  his  checkered  career  he  had  been  a 
man  o’war’s  man.  This  statement  was  borne  out  by  his 
singular  name  de  tramp,  as  “Chow”  in  the  parlance  of  the 
bluejackets  stands  for  grub,  food  and  victuals  in  general. 
In  accordance  with  Chow’s  story  covering  his  seafaring 
experiences,  he  had  been  a  ship’s  cook,  first  class,  aboard 
a  battleship.  So  well  was  he  liked  by  his  mates  and  superi¬ 
ors,  that  young  as  he  then  was,  he  stood  first  in  line  for 
promotion  to  the  coveted  rank  of  commissary  steward. 
His  drop  from  grace  had  its  beginning  on  the  Indian  Ocean 
where  the  battleship  ran  into  a  typhoon  of  such  magnificent 
proportions  that  for  days  the  crew  and  the  officers  of  the 
storm  buffeted  vessel,  unable  to  enjoy  their  meals  in  their 
regular  messes,  had  to  content  themselves  snatching  a  bite 
whenever  possible.  Then  it  came  to  pass  that  their  idol  of 
a  cook  served  them  with  salted  coffee,  just  as  if  the  copious 
quantities  of  brine  each  had  swallowed  as  it  came  dashing 
and  rolling  over  the  decks  by  the  ton  lot  had  not  been  suf¬ 
ficient  to  sicken  them  of  salt  all  their  days.  The  sailors 
never  forgave  the  chef  his  unintentional  error  of  mistaking 
salt  for  sugar  and  when  some  months  later  he  Was  called 
before  a  court  martial  to  answer  for  a  serious  infraction  of 
the  naval  regulations,  he  was  dishonorably  dismissed  from 
the  service.  Fearing  to  accept  honorable  employment 
with  the  onus  of  a  disgraceful  discharge  from  the  navy 
hanging  over  him  as  did  in  ancient  times  the  famed  sword 
that  suspended  by  a  silk  thread  hung  at  a  banquet  above 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


67 


Chow  Billy,  the  cook  of  the  battleship,  had  salted  their  coffee. 


68 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


■•f 


the  head  of  Damocles,  he  drifted  downward  until  he  was 
claimed  by  the  Road,  the  final  haven  of  refuge  of  all  human 
wreckage. 

As  I  had  stated,  Chow  Billy,  or  as  I  preferred  to  address 
him  for  short,  “Chow”  fell  a  prey  to  the  lure  of  Spindle 
Top,  and  good  pal  which  I  was,  I  allowed  him  to  urge  me 
to  come  along  with  him  and  witness  gushers  spouting  oil 
by  the  thousand  barrels,  to  connect  with  the  lavish  gen¬ 
erosity  of  the  drillers  and  other  high  salaried  characters 
employed  in  the  oil  fields,  and  lastly,  to  benefit,  should 
such  a  lucky  event  come  moving  our  way,  by  allowing 
ourselves  to  be  boosted  among  the  mortals  who  perhaps 
as  long  as  they  breathed  would  never  again  be  reduced  to 
the  necessity  of  having  to  carefully  count  their  spending 
money. 

We  hoboed  to  Kansas  City,  the  hustling  hub  of  com¬ 
mercial  America.  Then  we  rambled  southward  over  the 
Kansas  City  Southern,  a  railroad  the  hoboes  had  dubbed 
“The  Casey.”  As  might  have  been  expected  from  a  systeni 
that  straight  as  the  crow  flies  led  out  of  the  north  to 
southern  Texas,  the  Casey  quickly  became  the  favorite 
route  of  travel  for  all  tramps  hoboing  to  Spindle  Top. 

About  the  time  the  officials  of  the  Kansas  City  South¬ 
ern  were  congratulating  themselves  on  the  great  increase 
in  the  revenues  of  the  railroad  due  to  the  oil  boom,  they 
were  unpleasantly  reminded  by  reports  of  stations,  freight 
cars,  warehouses  and  other  properties  having  been  despoiled, 
that  the  Casey  was  also  furnishing  transportation  to  a  most 
undesirable  class  of  patrons.  When  the  criminal  depreda¬ 
tions  of  roving  marauders  assumed  such  proportions  as 
to  necessitate  taking  recourse  to  stern  repressive  measures, 
the  management  of  the  Casey  issued  orders  to  their  sub¬ 
ordinates  that  they  should  see  to  it  that  henceforth  hoboing 
over  the  railroad  was  made  so  disagreeable  to  every  class 
of  trespassers,  that  they  would  abstain  from  patronizing 
the  Kansas  City  Southern. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


60 


Chow  and  I  had  peacefully  hoboed  several  hundred 
miles  over  the  Casey,  when  the  defy  against  trampdom  was 
gazetted.  The  circumstance  that  we  were  danglers  proved 
our  salvation  from  having  to  share  the*fate  which  overtook 
all  train  bummers  who  were  caught  in  the  strict  enforcement 
of  the  anti-hobo  regulations.  Still,  even  we  who  traveled 
dangling  from  rods  and  rafters  beneath  the  coaches  had 
our  troubles  making  headway  and  we  deemed  it  to  be  noth¬ 
ing  beyond  the  expected  when  in  the  course  of  a  day's 
journey  we  were  several  times  chased  from  our  hiding  places. 
At  almost  every  stop  at  which  we  were  left  behind,  we  ran 
across  other  tramps  whose  travel  plans  had  suffered  similar 
delays.  However,  their  and  our  personal  experiences 
differed  in  one  vital  respect,  for  unless  the  passenger  train 
had  stopped  or  was  moving  at  less  than  a  walking  rate  we 
danglers  courted  little  danger  coming  in  contact  with  the 
boots  and  hard  firsts  of  the  irate  railroaders.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  hoboes  we  met  bore  numerous  evidences  of  having 
been  roughly  handled  by  whoever  had  knocked  them  off 
speeding  trains. 

One  evening  late  Chow  and  I  were  fired  off  an  accom¬ 
modation  train  at  Siloam,  Arkansas.  We  had  already 
missed  many  hours  of  sleep,  yet  we  decided  to  take  advan¬ 
tage  of  the  night  by  trying  to  dangle  the  “Crow  Limited,” 
which  crack  flyer  of  the  Casey  was  due  at  mignight.  When 
the  train  left  Siloam,  we  swung  ourselves  under  its  rearmost 
Pullman  and  there  straddling  a  brakebeam  we  traveled 
southward. 

The  night  was  moonless  and  hanging  low  overhead  were 
rain  threatening  clouds.  The  gloomy  darkness  proved  to  be 
so  soul  depressing  that  it  seemed  to  have  been  especially 
fashioned  to  induce  sleep.  To  add  another  dreadful  strain 
on  our  desire  to  loll  away  into  a  slumber  from  which  we 
knew  that  there  Would  be  no  awakening,  the  whirling  wheels 
which  spun  over  the  rails  ahead,  beside  and  to  the  rear  of 
us,  where  ceaselessly  whining  their  monotonous  refrain 


70 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 

of  “Clickety  Click!”  and  “Clackety  Clack!”  that  had 
proven  a  lullaby  of  death  to  so  many  danglers  who  unable 
to  further  resist  its  fascination  had  dozed  away  and  then 
with  an  uncanny  suddenness  had  been  hurled  to  a  horrible 
destruction  beneath  the  pounding  wheels.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  countless  painful  jolts  we  were  continually  receiving 
from  the  wildly  cavorting  brakebeam  that  was  but  loosely 
attached  to  the  fiercely  bouncing  truck,  there  would  have 
been  no  telling  how  soon  our  perilous  midnight  journey 
might  have  terminated  in  disaster. 

Now  and  anon  when  the  limited  passed  by  the  homes 
of  planters  and  cabins  of  darkies  where  midnight  oil  was 
burning,  the  blackness  of  the- outdoors  was  momentarily 
relieved  by  brilliant  shafts  of  light.  We  welcomed  these, 
glittering  gleams  and  the  rays  emitted  by  lighted  lanjps  at 
stations  where  the  train  made  stops  and  at  others  by  which 
the  limited  thundered,  as  there  was  no  counteractive  for 
drowsiness  superior  to  the  penetrating  brightness  of  light. 

The  Crow  Limited  had  halted  at  Stillwell  and  at  Sali- 
saw.  Fearing  for  our  safety  because  of  our  constantly 
increasing  sleepiness,  we  decided  to  quit  the  train  at  the 
first  water  stop  beyond  Spiro,  a  junction  point  where  the 
Fort  Smith  Branch  of  the  Casey  joined  the  main  line  and 
where  a  sleuth  made  his  headquarters  who  had  earned  a 
reputation  as  a  hunter  of  trespassers. 

At  Spiro  a.  Pullman  originating  at  Fort  Smith  was 
coupled  onto  the  rear  end  of  the  Crow  Limited.  We 
shifted  to  a  seat  upon  a  brakebeam  of  this  sleeper  for  the 
greater  protection  the  last  car  of  a  train  afforded  to  a 
dangler  against  discovery  of  his  whereabouts  by  station 
employees  who  after  nightfall  habitually  scanned  the  faces 
of  the  passengers  traveling  in  the  day  coaches  but  generally 
returned  to  their  allotted  tasks  when  the  sleeping  cars 
passed  the  platforms,  as  with  rare  exceptions  the  patrons 
of  the  Pullmans  had  drawn  the  shades  over  the  windows  of 
their  compartments. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


71 


Scarcely  had  the  limited  left  Spiro  than  straight  over¬ 
head  in  the  Pullman  from  where  we  were  hugging  the  truck, 
a  shade  that  heretofore  had  been  tightly  drawn  over  a 
window  was  let  up  to  its  full  length,  and  so  permitted  a 
lighted  lamp  within  the  car  to  cast  its  bright  reflection 
upon  the  black  background  furnished  outdoors  by  the  night. 
We  noted  by  the  shadows  which  the  rays  of  the  lamp 


Overnight  the  Kansas  City  Southern  became  “strictly  hostile." 

projected  into  the  illuminated  square  of  the  window  that 
two  passengers,  a  lady  and  a  gentleman,  had  taken  oppo¬ 
site  seats  near  it. 

“Gee  whiz,  Tom!”  excitedly  yelled  Chow  into  my 
ears  to  counteract  the  racket  raised  by  the  thundering 
train.  “While  we  poor  fellows  are  having  our  troubles 
trying  to  stay  awake,  only  a  few  inches  above  where  we 


72 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


■  are  flirting  with  Death  are  a  couple  who  at  two  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  and  still  dressed  in  their  street  clothes  are  putting  to 
naught  nature’s  law  of  recuperation!” 

I  shouted  back  to  Chow  an  answer  of  similar  portent 
and  then  returned  to  breathing  against  the  tips  of  my 
fingers  which  had  become  quite  benumbed  in  the  terrific 
draught  generated  by  the  racing  cars. 

Although  the  closed  window  prevented  the  escape  of 
sound  to  the  outdoors,  the  shadows  of  their  moving  lips, 
their  gesticulating  hands  and  the  frequent  changes  in  the 
tilt  of  their  heads,  announced  that  the  pair  of  travelers 
were  engaged  in  a  lively  conversation. 

The  humorous  comments  we  passed  between  ourselves 
at  the  expense  of  the  wide  awake  patrons  of  the  Pullman 
Company  so  excited  our  nerves,  that  ere  we  became  aware 
of  this  welcome  change,  we  had  conquered  our  drowsiness. 
Having  assured  ourselves  that  our  wakefulness  was  one 
of  a  lasting  character,  to  pass  the  time  the  more  pleasantly, 
we  fell  to  studying  the  shadowgraphs  of  the  passengers 
whose  timely  traveling  over  the  Casey  that  night,  had 
furnished  us  with  a  lease  to  hobo  over  the  “strictly  hostile 
railroad  farther,  by  far,  than  we  had  dared  to  anticipate. 

Not  unlike  periscopic  views  projected  against  a  sheet, 
the  animated  silhouettes  performed  their  peculiar  antics 
within  the  bounds  of  the  bright  square  of  the  window. 
From  our  point  of  observation  it  seemed  as  if  this  quadrant 
of'  light  with  its  moving  shadow  pictures  was  dragged  at 
lightning  rate  of  rapidity  by  superhuman  hands  over  the 
jet  black  landscape  of  Arkansas.  The  shadows  moved 
closest  to  the  side  of  the  train  and  therefore  became  the 
more  distinct  when  the  limited  whizzed  through  railroad 
cuts  and  forests,  past  freight  cars  standing  on  sidings  and 
by  stations  and  other  structures  erected  adjacent  to  the 
right  of  way.  They  receded  until  their  forms  assumed 


T}i4  Snare  of  the  Road. 


73 


titanic  dimensions  and  their  outlines  became  dimmed  to 
a  misty  gray  when  the  train  whirled  over  bridges,  trestles 
and  high  embankments. 

The  Crow  Limited  sped  southward  through  Western 
Arkansas  making  the  regular  stops  and  skimming  by  sta¬ 
tions  not  enumerated  in  its  fast  schedule.  All  the  while 
the  shadows  amused  us  with  their  singular  tricks  and  con¬ 
tortions.  They  continued  their  play  until  dawn  dispelling 
the  somber  shroud  of  the  night,  neutralized  the  rays  of  the 
lamp  as  they  shone  beyond  the  pane  of  the  window.  But 
footsteps  and  other  noises  transmitted  through  the  floor 
of  the  Pullman  gave  the  cue  that  the  couple  remained  as 
wide  awake  as  ever. 

Our  luck  of  the  night  held  out  in  the  light  of  day  as 
neither  members  of  the  train  crew,  nor  passengers,  nor  even 
native  Arkansans  discovered  our  riding  place.  At  nine  in 
the  morning  the  train  came  to  a  halt  in  the  trainshed  of 
the  Union  Station  at  Texarkana.  We  had  now  entered  the 
state  of  Texas  where  every  rambler  caught  in,  on  or  under 
a  passenger  train  was  invariably  condemned  to  serve  on  a 
convict  farm  a  term  of  eleven  months  and  twenty-nine 
days  at  hard  labor.  This  weighty  reason  coupled  with  our 
complete  physical  exhaustion  decided  us  to  quit  the  train. 

Aware  that  in  all  larger  terminals  policemen  were  on 
the  lookout  for  trespassers  on  the  off-side  of  trains,  we 
crawled  from  under  the  Pullman  to  the  station  platform. 
Having  assured  ourselves  that  no  John  Law  was  on  hand 
to  receive  us,  we  glanced  upward  at  the  window  of  the  car 
to  take  a  peep  at  the  passengers  whose  wakefulness  had 
made  it  possible  for  us  to  hobo  more  than  two  hundred 
and  fifty  miles.  We  were  to  be  disappointed,  as  the  shade 
was  drawn  taut  over  the  window.  However,  a  murmuring 
of  voices  emanating  from  within  the  compartment  told  us 
that  even  this  late  in  the  day  the  occupants  were  as  active 
as  ever. 


74 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


When  climbing  to  the  platform,  we  were  shielded  from 
public  observation  by  two  colored  porters  who  were  stand¬ 
ing  at  servile  attention  by  the  vestibules  of  their  adjoining 
Pullmans  to  assist  patrons  entering  and  leaving  the  sleep¬ 
ing  cars.  As  I  raised  myself  to  the  platform,  by  chance, 
my  ears  caught  items  of  interest  of  a  conversation  indulged 
in  by  the  darkles  and  in  which  they  were  so  thoroughly 
absorbed  that  they  failed  to  take  note  of  our  presence. 
Beckoning  to  Chow  that  we  remain,  we  eavesdropped  on 
what  the  chaps  had  to  tell  each  other. 

“Do  yu  know,  Mose,”  one  of  the  porters  said  to  his 
fellow,  “dat  last  night  Ah’se  been  carry’ng  aboa’d  ma  Fort 
Smith  sleeper  de  most  cu’ios  set  of  white  folks  AhVe  eber 
hauled  aboa’d  a  Pullman  since  de  day  Ah  became  a  poatah?” 

“How’se  dat,  Tobee?”  quizzed  the  other  darky. 

“What  Ah’ve  picked  up  from  der  talk,  Mose,”  ex¬ 
plained  the  porter  who  was  leading  the  topic,  dey  se  been 
po’r  folks  all  de  days  of  der  lives,  when  of  a  sudden  like 
der  luck  changed  on  dem,  b’cause  wid  de  few  dolla  s  dey  ve 
been  skimping  togedder,  dey  done  staked  a  fellah  to  trabel 
to  Spindle  Top  and  dere  prospect  for  oil.” 

“An’  did  he  done  strike  it  rich?”  interposed  the  other 
porter  unable  to  restrain  his  curiosity. 

“Lawdy!  He  suttingly  done  dat!”  came  the  reply. 
“An’  he’se  done  found  so  much  of  de  oil  dat  it’s  squirting 
from  the  ground  gwine  on  a  twenty-five  thousand  barrels 
ebery  bless’d  day,  an’  dat*s  worth  ten  thousand  dolla’s  of 
which  de  white  folks  in  ma  car  get  a  half  in  de  split-up.” 

“An’  den  yu  coon  dared  to  call  dem  lucky  cre’tures, 
‘cu’ios  folks’?”  he  was  upbraided  by  his  friend.  “Tobee, 
if  yu  an’  Ah  could  clear  five  dolla’s  ebery  twenty-four  hours, 
yu  an’.  Ah  would  be  tickled  ’most  to  death.” 

“Ah  reckon  yu  don’t  unnerstand  de  madder  quite  as 
well  as  Ah  do,  Mose,”  retorted  the  dispenser  of  train  gossip. 
“Det  white  folks  Ah  just  done  tole  yu  about,  hab  gwine 
’most  daffy  in  der  heads,  b’cause  eber  since  dey’ve  got  de 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


75 


tel’gram  wid  de  news  how  rich  de  odder  fellah  done  struck 
it  for  dem,  dey  se  been  try’ng  to  figger  up  fo’  how  many 
moah  days  dis  here  oil  well  is  gwine  to  shoot  five  thousand 
dolla  s  into  der  laps.  Dis  continn’al  calc’lating  has  gotten 
so  on  der  minds,  dat  it  done  turned  dem  into  such  nervous 
wrecks  dat  dey  can  neidder  eat,  sleep  nor  enjoy  any  odder 
fun  of  life.” 


We  had  come  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  by  the  "Brakebeam  Route.” 

“Neidder  would  Ah  and  yu  if  we  got  hold  of  a  snap  like 
dey’se  got!  Would  we,  Tobee?”  commented  Mose,  the 
porter.  “Nor  would  we  care.” 

“If  it  hadn’t  been  fo’  de  big  tip  Ah  expects  when  Ah 
sets  dem  out  at  Beaumont,”  continued  Tobee  without 
paying  attention  to  the  remark,  “Ah  would  done  tole  ma 
conductor  to  transfer  de  queer  couple  into  a  day  coach, 


76 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


b’cause  all  ma  odder  pass’ngers  been  a  complain’ng  dat 
de  racket  de  money  mad  folks  raised  all  night  done  kept 
dem  awake.” 

A  passer-by  temporarily  interrupted  the  gossiping  of 
the  darkies,  but  when  he  had  moved  beyond  earshot,  Tobee 
resumed  the  theme  by  admitting:  *Tell  yu  wad,  Mose,  yu 
an’  Ah  is  ’most  as  po’r  as  dem  li’l  church  mice  Ah  done  hear 
de  parson  preach  about,  nevadeless,  Ah  fo’  ma  part  would 
rather  end  ma  days  as  a  Pullman  poatah  den  step  into  de 
shoes  of  de  rich  folks  ye  hear  yonder  in  the  draw’ng  room 
csontinn’ng  der  rumpus.” 

The  conversation  of  the  porters  was  here  brought  to  a 
halt  by  travelers  who  required  assistance  to  board  the 
Pullmans. 

Chow  and  I  went  our  way  having  one  object  in  view, 
we  were  going  to  look  for  some  quiet  nook  where  we  would 
be  able  to  catch  up  with  the  many  hours  of  sleep  we  had 
lately  missed.  Not  having  gathered  advance  information 
concerning  the  treatment  meted  out  by  the  police  authori¬ 
ties  of  Texarkana  to  tramps  caught  lodging  in  empty  box 
cars,  we  followed  the  main  line  of  the  Casey  until  we  had 
passed  well  beyond  the  city  lines.  There  we  hunted  up  a 
secluded  spot,  built  a  campfire  by  the  side  of  which  we 
stretched  ourselves  upon  the  damp  ground  and  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  tell  of  it,  we  had  entered  the  realm  of 
Slumberland. 

While  sleeping  I  dreamt  of  the  unusual  adventure  we 
had  encountered  when  dangling  the  Crow  Limited.  Again 
I  watKhad  the  silhouetkbs  of  th«  passengers  in  the  private 
CQjnpartnaent  skipping  at  a  most  marvelous  rate  back  and 
forth  over  tke  night  scape  of  Arlasaneas.  I  heard  the  porter 
erf  the  Fort  Smith  PuUraaa  reveal  the  inside  history  con¬ 
nected  with  the  wide  awake,  but  utterly  unfortunate  couple 
whose  nervous  breakdown  made  It  impossible  for  them  to 
properly  enjoy  their  high  priced  Pullman  accommodations. 


TJie  Snare  oj  the  Road. 


77 


I  dreamt  I  hoboed  the  Crow  Limited  all  the  way  to  Beau¬ 
mont  where  in  company  with  the  sleepless  pair  I  was 
whizzed  in  a  high  powered  automobile  to  Spindle  Top,  and 
there  beheld  their  boundless  amazement  as  they  gazed 
upward  to  the  zenith  of  the  immense  plume  of  crude  oil; 
which,  with  forbidding  roaring  their  gusher  was  casting 
above  the  pinnacle  of  the  lofty  derrick  that  had  been  in¬ 
strumental  in  releasing  the  colossal  gas  pressure  which  had 
shot  the  greasy  fluid  skyward  from  its  subterranean  prison 
wherein  during  countless  ages  it  had  lain  confined.  Later 
on  when  the  folks  who  had  struck  it  so  marvelously  rich 
hastened  back  to  the  oil  field  I  was  present  and  beheld  their 
indescribable  despair  when  the  foreman  of  the  well  drilling 
crew  informed  them  that  he  had  left  nothing  untried  to 
revive  the  well  which  abruptly  had  completely  given  out. 

Cool  evening  zephyrs  fanning  northward  from  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico,  recalled  us  from  the  Land  of  Dreams  to 
the  stem  reality  that  unless  we  desired  to  prolong  our  fast 
by  another  twelve  hours,  we  would  have  to  do  some  tall 
hustling  to  return  to  Texarkana  in  time  to  panhandle  our 
suppers.  Counting  the  ties  of  the  Casey  back  to  the  city, 
we  were  there  confronted  with  a  most  unique  mix-up  of 
local  conditions.  Texarkana,  an  interstate  city,  had  parts 
of  its  territory  located  in  the  states  of  Texas  and  Arkansas. 
Local  option  allowed  barrooms  to  flourish  in  Texas,  while 
in  Arkeinsas,  a  prohibition  state,  it  was  contrary  to  law  to 
publicly  dispose  of  alcoholic  concoctions.  The  middle  of 
one  of  the  principal  thoroughfares  of  the  city  formed  the 
division  line  between  the  adjoining  states. 

We  did  our  panhandling  oa  the  ^Mry”  side  of  the  street, 
as  there  no  police  were  abroad  to  trouble  tramps.  In 
succtfision  each  of  us  was  taken  by  three  passers-by  into 
restaurante  and  provided  with  meals.  Having  satisfied  our 
requirements,  we  went  to  the  Union  Station  resolved  to 
take  advantage  of  another  dark  night  to  lessen  the  distance 
to  the  oil  field.  On  inquiry  we  were  informed  that  the  neart: 


78 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


train  to  depart  for  Beaumont  was  not  due  for  several  hours. 
To  pass  the  time  we  took  seats  on  a  bench  in  the  waiting 
room,  where  we  became  uninvited  listeners  to  the  conver¬ 
sations  of  numerous  passengers  who  had  come  to  Tex¬ 
arkana  from  every  point  of  the  compass  and  now  were 
waiting  to  make  connections  with  the  same  train  we  were 
figuring  on  hoboing. 

The  talk  of  the  strangers  almost  exclusively  centered 
on  one  subject!  They  were  exchanging  confidences  as  to 
how  they  intended  to  squander  the  riches  they  expected 
to  gather  at  Spindle  Top.  The  continual  threshing  over 
of  the  selfsame  theme  recalled  to  my  memory  the  miserable 
fate  of  the  unhappy  patrons  of  the  Casey’s  Fort  Smith 
sleeping  car  and  the  finish  of  the  dream  I  had  while  sleeping 
by  our  latest  campfire. 

Nudging  Chow  to  call  his  undivided  attention  to  what 
I  wished  to  say,  I  related  to  him  the  outcome  of  my  dream, 
when  standing  by  the  played-out  oil  well  into  which  they 
had  sunk  the  enjoyment  with  their  simple  living,  I  had 
witnessed  the  woe  of  the  hapless  pair  whose  contentment 
with  their  earthly  lot  had  been  so  thoroughly  wrecked  by  a 
windfall  of  fortune. 

Somewhat  inclined  to  superstition,  Chow  and  I  became 
so  absorbed  in  the  omens  of  the  dream,  that  ere  we  were 
aware  of  the  change  in  our  topic,  we  had  drifted  to  a  review¬ 
ing  of  our  personal  affairs.  As  had  the  other  fortune 
hunters  present  in  the  waiting  room,  so  we  had  come  ■ 
southward  in  quest  of  quick  wealth.  We  were  still  capable 
of  enjoying  recuperating  rest  any  time  and  anywhere  we 
cared  to  close  our  eyes  to  take  a  snooze.  That  only  so 
recently  we  had  made  away  with  three  substantial  meals, 
one  right  after  another,  furnished  an  even  better  proof  that 
we  stood  in  no  immediate  need  of  the  services  of  a  physician. 
Despite  these  priceless  endowments  and  every  bit  as  rapa¬ 
cious  as  were  the  other  argonauts,  we  were  yearning  to  share 
with  them  the  endless  heart  aches  and  tribulations  which  the  ? 


War  and  Peace. 


so 


The  Snare  of  the  Road^ 

gushers  of  Spindle  Top  were  casting  skyward  with  their 
oceans  of  oil.  We  ended  our  review  by  repeating  the  words 
of  infinite  wisdom  uttered  by  Tobee,  the  colored  Pullman 
porter,  when  he  spoke  of  the  little  church  mice  which  though 
they  were  virtually  condemned  to  battle  until  the  end  of 
their  days  with  almost  every  form  of  adversity,  preferred 
contentment  with  their  miserable  lot  to  the  countless  real 
and  imaginary  grievances  which  went  so  far  to  embitter 
the  existence  of  indolent  ease  lived  by  rodents  homing  in 
granaries. 

“Let’s  travel  the  route  of  the  little  church  mice,  Chow!” 
I  proposed,  speaking  so  loudly  as  to  draw  to  ourselves  the 
attention  of  the  legitimate  passengers.  “We  know  for  a 
fact  that  the  Road  of  the  hoboes  is  not  lined  with  glories  nor 
soft  snaps,  but  taking  stock  of  all  we  have  learned  in  the 
course  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  believe  me,  Chow,  its 
afflictions  are  veriest  child’s  play  when  compared  with  the 
burden  riches  acquired  without  honest  effort  invest  on  their 
owners.” 

“I  say:  Let’s  change  our  route,  Tom!”  replied  Chow 
Billy,  hoarsely  speaking  while  at  the  same  time  he  heartily 
pressed  my  hand,  and  following  suit  to  our  feelings,  we 
hiked  from  the  waiting  room  as  if  we  were  conquering  heroes. 

At  eleven  that  night,  when  the  “Northern  Flyer”  of 
the  Iron  Mountain  Route  snaked  through  the  lamp-lit 
railroad  yards  of  Texarkana,  Chow  and  I  were  contentedly 
straddling  a  truck  beneath  the  observation  car.  When  the 
wheels  began  to  scream  as  the  train  gathered  speed,  for  a 
hundredth  time  we  passed  mutual  congratulations  at  having 
so  narrowly  escaped  finishing  our  days  rolling  in  wealth. 

Having  made  such  a  sentimental  getaway  from  the  lure 
of  Spindle  Top,  who  could  have  predicted  that  escaping 
one  predicament  we  were  to  be  rewarded  for'  our  trouble 
with  another  one,  worse  if  anything.  It  was  break  of  day, 
when  the  limited  arrived  at  Little  Rock,  the  capital  of  the 
state  of  ^kansaa  and  a  division  point  of  the  Iron  Mountain 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


81 


Route.  Espying  us  as  we  tried  to  dodge  from  him  under 
the  coaches,  a  car  inspector  took  after  us.  The  chase  ended 
in  our  capture  and  his  turning  us  over  for  an  investigation 
to  a  police  officer. 

Just  about  twelve  hours  after  we  had  commenced  our 
retreat,  the  judge  of  the  Municipal  Court  of  Little  Rock 
sentenced  us  to  serve  a  term  on  a  convict  farm  where  under 
the  vigilant  care  of  deputy  sheriffs,  who  made  use  of  the 
butts  of  their  rifles  while  educating  their  pupils,  we  were 
initiated  in  the  rudiments  of  agriculture.  In  the  course 
of  the  next  six  months  we  mastered  the  gentle  art  of  cul¬ 
tivating  corn,  cotton,  peanuts  and  many  other  staple 
products  of  the  fertile  soil  and  balmy  clime  of  Arkansas. 

Although  our  labor  yielded  a  neat  margin  of  profit  to 
the  lessee  of  the  convicts,  the  prisoners  derived  no  benefit 
whatever  from  their  punishment.  This  fact  was  best  borne 
out  by  Chow  and  I  when  within  a  few  hours  after  we  had 
discarded  the  striped  uniform  for  civilian  attire,  we  swung 
aboard  a  passenger  train  at  the  first  water  tank  to  the  north 
of  Little  Rock  to  which  stop  we  had  “piked”  with  this 
purpose  in  view. 


CHOW  Billy  and  I  had  been  hobo  mates  for  a  good 
many  months,  when  our  journeying  led  us  to  the  At¬ 
lantic  Coast.  Here  the  air  was  impregnated  with 
the  salt  tang  of  the  sea!  This  or  memories  of  the  past  soon 
made  me  aware  that  the  ex-man  o’  war’s  man  was  harried 
by  an  even  stronger  hankering  than  his  love  for  the  Road. 
One  day  Chow,  togged  out  in  the  full  regalia  of  the  navy, 
returned  to  the  hobo  dump  where  we  had  our  kipping  while 
working  the  passers-by  in  the  streets  of  the  Philadelphia. 

“Rolled  a  drunken  mariner  for  the  duds,  Chow?”  I 
laughingly  asked,  believing  he  had  come  in  possession  of  the 
gaudy  outfit  by  the  method  commonly  practiced  by  tramps. 


82 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“Not  on  your  life,  mate!”  rejoined  Chow,  whose  counte¬ 
nance  showed  in  a  broad  grin  that  whatever  he  had  achieved 
during  his  absence  from  the  lodging  house  brought  him 
utmost  satisfaction.  “I  got  tangled  up  with  a  recruitmg 
officer  and  signed  up  for  an  enlistment  in  the  navy.” 

“Aren’t  you  afraid  of  being  recognized  and  perchance 
condemned  to  a  federal  prison?”  I  gasped,  remembering 
that  some  years  previously  the  naval  authorities  had  tried 
to  terminate  his  aspirations  with  a  left-handed  release  from 
the  service. 

“Afraid?”  he  disdainfully  echoed.  “Afraid  of  what 
after  having  found  by  personal  experience  that  the  treat¬ 
ment  one  receives  in  the  roughest  holdover  is  a  veriest 
pleasure  if  compared  with  the  best  I  have  lived  through  in 
the  seven  hard  years  of  apprenticeship  that  I  served  the 
Road  and  which  have  so  well  prepared  me  to  willingly  tackle 
anything  offering  fair  odds?” 

“Like  the  ones  we  got  when  we  turned  our  backs  on 
Spindle  Top  and  ran  afoul  of  Judge  Ratterree  at  Little  . 
Rock!”  I  jeered,  but  when  my  warnings  and  entreaties 
failed  to  shake  his  resolve  to  make  a  man  of  hiniself,  I 
made  the  most  of  the  situation,  as  Chow  always  had  proven 
himself  to  be  a  first  rate  pal.  • 

The  last  I  saw  of  Chow  Billy  was  at  the  Brooklyn 
Navy  Yard.  They  had  transferred  him  there  to  receive  a 
course  of  preliminary  training.  A  non-commissioned  officer 
was  initiating  the  “Old  Timer”  in  company  with  a  lot  of 
gawky  “rookies”  in  the  intricacies  of  the  gun  drill.  Stand¬ 
ing  among  the  spectators  who  had  flocked  to  the  parade 
ground  to  enjoy  the  awkward  doings  of  the  recruits,  I  tried 
to  draw  the  attention  of  Chow  to  my  presence.  I  promptly 
arrived  at  the  conviction  that  my  former  comrade  was  ■ 
studiously  avoiding  my  gaze  from  the  fact  that  when  I 
first  noted  his  eyes  turned  In  my  direction  a  pallor  in- 
dicating  fear  spread  over  his  countenance.  f 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


83 


A  chance  to  inquire  for  the  reason  I  had  lost  his  friend¬ 
ship  came  when  during  a  recess  the  drill  sergeant  placed  his 
charges  so  near  to  the  guard  rope  that  their  backs  almost 
touched  this  line  that  had  been  stretched  about  the  parade 
ground  to  prevent  lookers-on  from  surging  onto  forbidden 
space. 


Slipping  to  the  rear  of  where  Chow  stood  in  the  ranks, 
I  leaned  over  the  rope  and  then  whispered:  “How-do-you- 
do,  Billy?” 


I  scarcely  recognized  Chow  Billy  in  navy  togs. 


Instead  of  good  naturedly  accepting  my  friendly 
greeting,  Chow  hissed:  “Have  a  heart  and  don  t  queer 
my  game,  Tom!  I  spotted  you  long  before  you  got  hip  to 
my  presence,  but  avoided  looking  in  your  direction  as  the 
'non-comish’  who’s  putting  us  through  the  stunts  is  one 
of  the  ship  mates  I  dosed  with  salty  Java. 


84. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


Anxious  to  shield  Chow  from  the  sequences  of  a 
detection  of  his  identity,  I  immediately  quit  the  navy  yard. 
But  ever  since  I  have  made  it  my  business  to  search  for 
his  moniker  on  water  tanks  and  other  places  where  tramps 
register.  As  to  date  I  have  failed  to  connect  with  his  hobo 
trade-mark,  most  reasonable  seems  to  be  my  presumption 
that  this  time  Chow  Billy  is  navigating  the  seven  seas  with 
better  success  than  was  his  during  his  first  enlistment  in 
the  navy. 


WOULD  you  mind  briefly  outlining  the  cause  or 
causes  which  led  you  to  take  to  the  Road,  sir? 
asked  Gerald  Davis  when  the  traveler  made  ready 
to  leave  the  room,  having  concluded  his  engagement. 

“The  authorities  of  my  home  town  positively  refused 
to  allow  transient  beggars  to  linger  within  the  police  lines,” 
replied  Nevada  Tom,  “but  they  offered  no  objection  to  their 
camping  by  a  spring  located  some  distance  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  the  community.  This  spring  chanced  to  be  a 
mere  stone’s  throw  from  the  best  swimming  hole  in  the 
vicinity  and  in  due  time  some  of  us  lads  strayed  to  the  hobo 
camp,  became  familiar  with  the  manner  of  living  practiced 
by  the  vagabonds,  and  as  ‘familiarity  breeds  contempt,* 
it  was  easy  for  the  rovers  to  induce  us  boys  to  take  our  first 
box  car  trip  ‘for  the  fun  of  it’  with  the  result  that  we  caught 
the  tramping  fever  from  which  brain-affecting  disease  most 
of  us  have  since  been  unable  to  cure  ourselves.” 


WITH  this  interesting  statement  the  stranger  closed 
his  visit.  While  Mr.  Davis  settled  with  Nevada 
Tom  for  his  services,  he  asked  that  he  direct  other 
floaters  as  he  had  been  directed  by  Arkansas  Jimmy. 
When  the  wanderer  agreed  to  remember  this  request,  he 
was  allowed  to  depart. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


85 


Noting  on  his  return  to  the  parlor  that  Gerald  had  not 
yet  dismissed  his  chums,  Mr.  Davis  improved  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  caution  the  youths. 

‘  Do  not  let  a  word  of  your  attending  this  afternoon’s 
entertainment  come  to  the  ears  of  Bert  Coleman,  boys,” 
he  pleaded,  “but  cbntinue  to  listen  to  his  accounts  of  the 
Road  with  the  same  degree  of  interest  you  have  heretofore 
wasted  on  them.  In  the  meanwhile  I  shall  try  and  engage 
other  hoboes  to  lecture  to  you,  as  I  am  hopeful  that  when 
you  have  heard  stories  depicting  both  sides  of  tramp  life, 
the  actual  and  the  fictitious,  you  will  be  all  the  better 
prepared  to  intelligently  judge  for  yourselves  which  road 
through  life  will  be  the  most  promising  for  you  to  choose; 
The  one  that  at  its  worst  offers  an  honorable  existence  or 
the  other  that  at  its  best  quickly  leads  to  an  abyss  which  is 
but  slightly  removed  from  Hades.” 

The  youths  promised  to  obey  these  orders  and  then 
were  permitted  to  take  their  leave. 


SOME  days  later,  a  loud  voiced  dispute  in  the  back 
yard  of  his  residence  sent  Mr.  Davis  scuttling  from 
the  supper  table  to  investigate  the  disturbance. 

“I  wouldn’t  give  a  rap  if  you’ve  got  here  ahead  of 
me,  Jersey  Dan!”  some  one  bellowed  just  as  the  owner  of  the 
premises  cautiously  opened  the  kitchen  entrance. 

“What’s  eating  you,  Texas  Jerry?”  came  the  retort 
of  the  oth-er  quarreler.  “I  was  getting  ready  to  brace  the 
ex-bo  who  makes  his  kippings  here  for  a  chance  to  tell  of 
the  doings  of  the  bums,  when  you  moosed  in  and  now  are 
trying  to  spoil  the  graft  and  — ” 

The  speaker  did  not  finish  the  sentence  for  Mr.  Davis 
angrily  demanded  to  be  informed  why  the  squabblers  had 
■selected  the  back  yard  of  a  private  residence  to  do  their 
disputing  and  thus  had  frightened  law  abiding  folks. 


S6 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“Pardon  me,  mister,”  stated  the  first  comer,  excusing 
his  presence  on  the  premises,  “Nevada  Tommy  sent  me  here 
to  see  you  about  — ” 

“And  Arkansas  Jimmy  put  me  wise  to  this  job,  sir!” 
interjected  the  other  fellow  not  to  be  outdone  by  his  com¬ 
petitor. 

“Ah,  now  I  understand!”  observed  Mr.  Davis.  *  You 
were  directed  here  to  give  discourses  on  the  roving  life. 


Two  hoboes  had  made  themselves  very  much  at  home  on  the  premises. 


“Lem’me  have  the  first  show!”  proposed  the  ruffian 
who  was  introduced  as  Texas  Jerry. 

“To  be  fair  with  both  of  you,  I  shall  let  the  law  of 
precedence  govern  your  employment,  gents,”  judged  the 
master  of  the  house. 

When  the  tramps  agreed  to  abide  by  this  equitable 
decision,  they  were  supplied  with  lunches  and  then  Texas 
Jerry  was  told  to  return  on  the  following  evening  at  the 
same  hour. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


S7 


While  Jersey  Dan  was  lunching,  Gerald  Davis  was  sent 
by  his  father  into  the  neighborhood  to  invite  his  boy  friends 
to  their  second  hobo  entertainment.  His  errand  was 
favored  by  Providence  as  young  Davis  found  most  of  his 
comrades  at  the  “hangout”  corner  where  they  had  hearken¬ 
ed.  so  often  to  the  evil  counsel  furnished  by  Coleman  and 
other  unprincipled  human  vultures  that  unawares  of  the 
danger  they  were  ready,  nay,  anxious,  to  take  a  fling  at 
the  Road.  The  lads  accepting  the  invitation,  hastened 
with  their  friend  to  his  home  and  there  found  the  tramp 
awaiting  their  arrival.  When  seats  had  been  provided  to 
the  late  comers,  the  hobo  began  the  graphic  narrative  whith 
follows  a  brief  foreword  by  the  author. 


1 


S8  The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  THE  THIRD  TRAMP. 


PART  L 

A  FOREWORD  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

“How  the  State  of  Georgia  Solved 
the  Tramp  Problem.” 

WITH  the  exception  of  a  very  limited  mileage  cover¬ 
ing  territory  contiguous  to  the  larger  cities,  until 
quite  recently  highways  of  a  scientific  standard 
of  construction  and  maintained  on  the  same  basis  were 
practically  unknown  throughout  Georgia.  In  their  stead 
the  mountainous  districts  of  the  state  were  served  for 
countryside  road  intercourse  by  hillside  trails  and  the  level 
sections  had  to  get  along  with  makeshift  lanes  most  of 
which,  in  the  course  of  every  prolonged  dry  spell,  became 
almost  impassable  by  the  depth  of  the  dust  that  covered 
them  and  were  turned  by  even  moderate  rains  into  ponds 
and  quagmires. 

At  the  same  time  the  state  absolutely  controlled  the 
disposal  of  thousands  of  convicts.  Annually  the  labor  of 

s 

these  unfortunates  was  bartered  to  the  highest  bidder  of 
contractors  who  employed  the  prisoners  in  unfair  competi¬ 
tion  with  the  toiling  classes. 

Faithfully  aping  the  example  of  the  sovereign  state, 
every  county,  city,  town,  hamlet  and  crossroad  community 
turned  their  real  and  impressed  transgressors  for  a  weekly 
or  monthly  cash  consideration  over  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  dealers  in  this  kind  of  human  chattels.  The  revenues 
derived  from  this  babarian  fraffic  scarcely  balanced  the 
expenditures  of  numerous  “Prison  Boards”  and  other 
strictly  political  offices  the  incumbents  of  which  attended 
so  well  to  their  charge,  that  few  of  the  prisoners  were  re" 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


S9 


formed,  but  contrariwise,  most  of  them  succumbed  sooner 
or  later  to  the  ravages  of  malignant  diseases  contracted 
while  in  duress  vile. 

With  the  advent  of  the  automobile  and  its  demonstra¬ 
tion  of  usefulness,  the  need  of  modern  highways  became  so 
crying  that  means  were  promptly  found  to  deprive  the 
lessees  of  the  convicts  of  their  prey  and  so  put  an  end  — 
let  us  hope  forever — to  the  revoltingly  inhumane  peddling 
of  prisoners  for  “revenue  only.”  Under  the  direction  of 
competent  road  engineers  the  offenders  against  the  law 
were  then  put  to  work  on  the  state  roads  with  the  result 
that  two  most  laudable  improvements  were  attained: 
At  a  maximum  of  health  and  contentment  and  at  a  mini¬ 
mum  of  cost  to  the  taxpayers,  the  convicts  built  a  highway 
system  that  with  a  rapidly  mounting  annual  mileage,  has 
covered  the  state  of  Georgia  with  a  spiderweb  of  modern 
country  roads. 

A  not  inconsiderable  percentage  of  this  road  system 
would  still  remain  to  be  constructed  had  not  the  Brethren 
of  the  Road,  though  unwillingly,  contributed  their  share 
towards  the  achievement  of  this  praiseworthy  work. 
Annually,  with  the  approach  of  winter,  from  as  far  north¬ 
ward  as  remote  Labrador  and  westward  to  the  eastern  slope 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  an  army  counting  into  the  ten 
thousands  and  comprising  within  its  ranks  every  class  of 
Wandering  Willie,  hoboed  to  the  Land  of  Dixie  there  to 
roam  until  the  balmy  days  of  spring  invited  a  return  to 
northern  stamping  grounds. 

In  the  beginning  of  this  winter  time  visitation  of  their 
section  by  hordes  of  uncouth  tramps,  imbued  by  a  spirit 
of  hospitality,  the  Southerners  tolerated  the  vagbonds  who 
begged,  and  if  a  chance  looked  good,  stole  a  sustenance  at 
the  expense  of  the  native  population.  Not  even  the  police 
molested  the  box  car  tourists,  unless  they  caught  them  red- 
handed  committing  deviltries. 


90 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 

In  the  course  of  the  years  an  ever  growing  intolerance 
toward  the  wandering  beggars  began  to  manifest  itself 
among  the  citizens  of  the  Southland  and  especially  those  of 
Georgia  who  suffered  infinitely  more  than  all  others  as 
through  their  state  passed  and  returned  the  legions  of  the 
hobo  migration  bound  to  Florida  destinations.  This 
hostility  was  directly  traceable  to  the  presence  among  the 
vagabonds  of  every  species  of  degenerate  humanity  who 
had  been  drivenirom  their  lairs  by  the  annual  fall  cleaning 
of  the  slums  by  the  police  of  the  northern  cities.  Fearing 
to  face  the  rigors  of  the  winter,  these  outcasts  naturally 
became  part  and  parcel  of  the  southbound  treck  of  hoboes. 

So  indelibly  were  the  stigmata  of  their  viciousness 
expressed  in  the  rum  seared  visages  of  these  perverts,  the 
rags  they  wore,  the  tough  manners  they  affected  and  the 
language  of  the  criminals  they  preferably  spoke,  that  the 
Georgians  on  becoming  acquainted  with  the  foul  origin  of 
these  implacable  enemies  of  society,  refused  them  charities. 

Shunned  by  their  own  race,  the  pariahs  turned  for 
food  and  shelter  to  the  colored  people  who  in  many  locali¬ 
ties  in  the  Southland  form  a  majority  of  the  population. 
To  meet  racial  expediencies,  the  southern  negroes  had 
been  carefully  trained  to  respect  as  a  superior  every  member 
of  the  Caucasian  race.  As  a  logical  sequence  of  this  tutor¬ 
ing,  aid  was  freely  extended  to  the  white  skinned  but  black 
hearted  beggars  who  knocked  on  the  back  doors  of  the 
humble  homes  of  the  darkies.  Bent  on  having  vengeance 
for  having  been  refused  aid  by  the  whites,  the  rascals  set 
to  work  poisoning  the  minds  of  the  ignorant  among  the 
darkies  with  gross  untruths  concerning  the  treatment 
meted  out  to  negroes  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  northern 
states  and  Canada. 

Although  the  cotton  planters  and  other  employers  of 
negro  labor  became  quickly  aware  who  they  had  to  thank 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


91 


for  numberless  proofs  of  disloyalty  on  the  part  of  their  em¬ 
ployees,  they  had  no  redress  as  in  almost  every  instance  the 
tramping  thug  had  left  the  vicinity  when  word  was  brought 
of  the  rebellion  preached  to  the  darkies. 

When  highways  became  in  Georgia  the  paramount 
issue  of  the  day  and  every  class  of  prisoner  was  employed 
to  provide  this  pressing  need,  there  came  to  the  long  suf¬ 
fering  natives  a  chance  for  which  they  had  yearned,  to  pay 
off  the  score  they  owed  the  hoboes  for  having  fomented 
race  hatred.  Drastic  anti-tramb  laws  were  promptly 
enacted  —  since  successfully  copied  by  other  states  — 
which  allowed  the  detention  for  investigation  of  every 
vagranting  stranger.  If  the- suspect  could  not  or  refused  to 
furnish  proper  excuses  for  begging  a  living  or  being  abroad 
in  the  land  on  other  than  strictly  legitimate  business,  he 
was  sentenced  to  serve  a  year  on  a  highway. 

Two-fold  was  the  aim  of  this  seemingly  severe  penalty. 
Months  were  required  to  accustom  a  professional  beggar 
or  wandering  criminal  who  perhaps  never  had  done  a  lick 
of  work,  to  the  beauties  of  honest  toil.  Secondly,  it  was 
hoped  to  thoroughly  eradicate  from  perverted  minds  every 
hankering  to  resume  lawless  pursuits. 

Most  remarkable  were  the  results  of  the  strict  enforce¬ 
ment  of  the  anti-vagrancy  statutes.  It  enhanced  the  value 
of  farm  products  and  that  of  every  acre  of  tillable  soil  by 
adding  an  appreciable  percentage  to  the  mileage  of  a  high¬ 
way  system  that  afforded  an  easy  access  to  the  markets.- 
It  stopped  a  sight  most  repellant  to  the  inhabitants  of 
the  Southland,  that  of  beggars  belonging  to  the  white  race 
humbly  appealing  to  be  given  aid  at  the  kitchen  stoops  of 
cabins  occupied  by  negroes.  But  the  greatest  blessing,  by 
far,  was  a  simply  astounding  decrease  in  the  number  of 
hoboes,  harmless  as  well  as  harmful  ones,  who  every  winter 
had  plied  their  outlawed  trades  in  Georgia. 

The  almost  immediate  returns  of  the  Georgian  cam¬ 
paign  for  good  roads  and  against  worthless  roadsters  may 


99 


Th€  Snare  ef  th$  Road. 


readily  be  ascribed  to  the  despatch  with  which  the  news 
of  the  ajiti-tramp  activities  spread  among  the  Wandering 
Willies.  How  this  rapid  dissemination  was  brought  about 
and  the  effect  this  knowledge  had  on  the  acts  and  the 
travel  plans  of  the  hoboes  will  best  be  appreciated  when 
paying  careful  attention  to  the  interesting  account  Jersey 
Han  related. 


The  Stiore  of  the  Road. 


93 


PART  11 

JERSEY  DAN’S  STORY. 

“The  Call  to  the  Road.” 

IT  was  in  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  eleven  and 
after  the  furious  autumn  gales  had  stripped  the  tree® 
of  the  last  of  the  leaves.  Jack  Frost,  too,  had  become  a 
regular  visitor  and  had  compelled  hoboes  who  heretofore 
had  comfortably  flopped  in  bo^  cars  and  other  exposed 
lodging  places  to  seek  accommodations  in  police  stations 
and  other  tramp  dumps,  all  of  which  nightly  held  capacity 
crowds  of  vagranting  transients. 

Every  fall  I  heeded  the  date  set  by  the  migratory  birds 
in  their  departure  to  a  warmer  clime.  Following  their 
lead,  I  hoboed  until  I  arrived  in  a  latitude  which  insured 
immunity  from  all  but  the  most  frigid  blasts  of  winter,  and 
these,  even,  while  straying  southward  had  been  shorn  of 
much  of  their  severity. 

But  this  year  I  was  yet  abroad  in  the  Northland  despite 
numerous  indications  of  the  near  approach  of  zero  weather 
which  by  tramps  is  dreaded  as  one  of  their  most  formidable 
enemies.  Weak  minded  would  be  rated  by  his  fellows 
the  hobo  who,  lacking  the  best  of  reasons,  should  volun¬ 
tarily  choose  to  winter  in  the  north  where  besides  an  endless 
array  of  privations,  hoboing  is  only  possible  at  the  great 
risk  of  losing  one’s  limbs,  if  not  life,  by  freezing. 

It  was  not  dementic  foolhardiness  that  had  detained 
me  this  late  in  the  fall  in  a  section  of  the  continent  which 
almost  any  morning  might  be  found  buried  beneath  several 
feet  of  snow,  when  only  a  few  days  of  leisurely  hoboing 
would  have  deposited  me  in  a  land  where  stately  leave*  of 
royal  palms  beckoned  one  to  lazily  loll  in  their  shade. 


94 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


It  was  fear  —  not  the  everyday,  commonplace  sort  of 
fear,  but  soul-racking  fright  that  decided  me  to  brave  the 
rigors  of  an  almost  arctic  winter,'  although  my  original 
itinerary  had  inducted  a  stay  of  six  months  in  Florida,  the 
land  of  perpetual  summer  time.  ' 

While  abroad  in  the  provinces  of  Alberta  and  Saskat¬ 
chewan,  I  had  been  forwarned  by  the  constantly  increasing 
chilliness  of  the  night  air,  that  the  hour  was  at  hand  for 
hoboes  to  vacate  Canada.  Rambling  eastward  over  the 
Canadian  Pacific  Railway  to  Winnipeg,  I  had  hoboed  hence 
to  Duluth  over  the  Canadian  Northern  Lines. 

It  was  at  Duluth  I  received  my  first  intimation  that 
all  was  not  well  with  Georgia,  at  least  not  from  the  stand¬ 
point  of  hobodom,  when  a  tramp  acquaintance  I  met, 
inquired:  “Where ’re  you  going  to  hang  out  next  winter, 
Jersey?” 

“In  Florida,  of  course!  tiobnobbing  with  the  million¬ 
aires  at  Palm  Beach  and  other  red  hot  places!”  I  gayly 
answered  while  at  the  same  time  I  wondered  where  else 
the  fellow  expected  a  blown-in-the-glass  stiff  had  business 
to  be  while  winter  was  venting  his  fury  on  the  Northland. 

“I’ve  got  it  from  reliable  ’boes,”  .sighed  the  tramp, 
“that  lately  the  natives  of  Georgia  have  become  ‘strictly 
hostile’  towards  everything  connected  with  our  profesh’,  and 
I  can’t  see  how  you’re  going  to  prevent  getting  tangled  up 
with  them  when  passing  through  their  state  to  reach  Florida 
and  return  from  there  in  the  spring.” 

Aware  that  mere  threats  and  even  lengthy  terms  of 
imprisonment  had  never  halted  a  hobo  who  had  become 
indurated  against  punishment  of  every  description,  I 
shunted  our  conversation  from  this,  to  me,  wearisome  theme 
to  a  more  likely  topic. 

Stowing  away  aboard  the  Anchor  Liner  “Octorara,”  I 
crossed  the  Great  Lakes  from  Duluth  to  Buffalo  without  a 
soul  becoming  aware  of  my  unbidden  passage  of  more  than 
a  thousand  miles.  It  was  a  dreary,  rain  drizzling  day  when 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


95 


I  went  ashore  at  Buifalo  and  not  caring  to  buck  the  in¬ 
clement  elements,  I  hunted  up  a  “doss  house”  where  for 
the  price  of  ten  cents  I  was  furnished  with  a  bunk  for  the 
night  and  was  allowed  the  privileges  of  the  lobby  until  I 
retired.  To  while  away  the  dismal  afternoon,  I  took  a 
chair  and  scrutinized  the  human  income  of  the  “Hotel  de 
Vag  as  they  crossed  the  lobby  to  deposit  their  dimes  with 
the  clerk  in  cl^arge  of  the  lodging  house. 


'  Among  the  customers  entering  the  hobo  dump,  I 
recognized  “Conchy*  Slim,”  a  professional  tramp  who  was 
considered  to  be  a  most  “lamous”  (harmless)  chap  by 
every  hobo  I  heard  mention  his  standing  in  the  fraternity. 
I  greeted  him  and  although  it  had  been  several  years  since 
we  met,  he  remembered  me  and  accepted  my  invitation  to 
help  pass  the  idle  hours  by  a  mutual  exchange  of  travel  news. 

•"Conchy”  is  the  hobo  argot  for  Connecticut. 


06 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


We  drew  our  chairs  to  where  none  of  the  other  patrons 
of  the  vagabond  lodging  house  could  eavesdrop  on  our  con¬ 
versation  and  soon  were  absorbed  in  recounting  our  ex¬ 
periences.  While  we  were  conversing,  I  noted  with  no  little 
surprise,  that  since  our  last  meeting,  the  formerly  florid 
countenance  of  Conchy  Slim  not  only  had  lost  its  pro¬ 
nounced  soggy  flobbiness  which  is  due  to  alcohol  when 
freely  imbibed,  but  also  was  tanned  the  deep  berry  brown 
color  of  health  one  associates  with  the  face  of  a  human 
living  an  outdoor  existence.  In  other  respects  his  general 
appearance  seemed  to  bear  out  my  suspicion  that  for  some 
time  he  had  practiced  the  virtue  of  temperance. 

‘‘What ’re  you  sizing  me  up,  Danny?”  he  unexpectedly 
blurted,  evidently  having  taken  umbrage  at  my  inquisitive 
leering. 

“Did  you  quit  your  razzling  with  booze,  Conchy?” 
I  laughingly  asked,  desirous  to  hear  from  his  lips  if  he  had 
reformed,  knowmg  as  I  did  by  personal  observation  how 
preciously  few  in  number  were  the  hoboes  who  in  connec¬ 
tion  with  a  long  line  of  other  repellant  habits  were  not  also 
drunkards  of  the  most  degenerate  type. 

“Are  you  trying  to  kid  me,  Jersey?”  he  crankily  re¬ 
turned,  furnishing  a  further  proof  that  he  was  not  welcom¬ 
ing  my  pertinent  attention. 

“It  isn’t  just  that.  Slim,”  I  frankly  confessed,  “but  I 
am  fairly  on  edge  to  find  out  if  they’ve  got  you  to  sign  a 
temperance  pledge?” 

“No,  siree!”  he  sharply  rejoined.  “It  wasn’t  quite 
that,  but  blissfully  unaware  that  only  a  few  days  before  my 
arrival  they  had  enacted  a  lot  of  hostile  laws  against  tramps, 
I  hoboed  last  fall  into  Georgia  where  a  magistrate  to  whom 
I  refused  to  give  a  correct  account  of  my  past,  sentenced 
me  to  a  solid  year  of  slavery  with  a  gang  of  convicts  they 
were  employing  making  repairs  to  the  public  highways.” 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


97 


I  went  aboard  with  the  pajeengera. 


98 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“Harmless  fellow  which  you  were,  Conchy!”  I  indig¬ 
nantly  cried.  “How  could  a  judge  have  the  heart  to  treat 
you  like  that?” 

But  even  while  I  expressed  my  sympathy  with  his 
predicament,  I  chanced  to  note  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eyes, 
and  suspicioning  that  Conchy  Slim  was  attempting  to  play 
a  practical  joke  at  my  expense,  I  warned:  “Are  you  giving 
me  the  straight  of  this  affair?” 

“See  for  yourself  whether  or  not  l  am  fibbing,  Dan!” 
he  spiritedly  retorted  and  then  turning  his  hands  he  let 
me  see  how  thickly  their  palms  were  covered  with  callouses. 

“It’s  more  than  a  month  since  I  quit  intimately  asso¬ 
ciating  with  road  grading  implements,”  he  whined,  “and 
these  hard  blisters  are  the  least  of  many  reminders  of  what 
I  went  up  against  in  Georgia.” 

Then  he  began  telling  of  those  experiences  through 
which  revelations  rang  a  firm  resolve  nevermore  to  set  foot 
on  the  soil  of  any  state,  at  least  not  while  he  was  a  hobo, 
where  they  applied  the  profitable  Georgian  specific  for 
every  form  of  public  vagabondage.  I  should  have  known 
better,  but  it’s  in  the  smartest  of  humans  to  make  awkward 
breaks  at  the  wrong  moment,  anyhow,  I  forgot  myself  so 
far  as  to  mention  that  on  leaving  Buffalo,  I  intended  to  hobo 
to  Florida  by  way  of  the  cifips  strung  southward  along  the 
Atlantic  Coast. 

“Which  means  that  you’re  going  to  pass  through 
Georgia!”  snarled  Conchy  over  whose  countenance  spread 
a  scowl  of  anger,  poorly  concealed,  due  no  doubt  to  my  light 
disregard  of  his  urgent  precautionings. 

“Why  not?  They  won’t  be  able  to  take  care  of  all  of 
us!”  I  observed,  aware  that  as  a  rule  every  tramp  was 
cheerfully  willing  to  risk  the  chance  of  being  one  of  a  number 
who  by  their  detention  would  effectively  block  any  scheme 
of  punishment  in  accordance  with  the -simple  expedient 
that  the  sacrifice  of  the  few  saved  the  many  from  molesta¬ 
tion. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


99 


My  process  of  reasoning  did  not  appeal  to  Conchy 
Slim,  for  the  next  instant  found  him  reading  me  a  riot  act 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  an  experienced  revivalist 
or  political  campaigner.  Over  and  over  he  repeated  a 
caution  against  my  taking  a  fool’s  chance  in  a  state  where 
the  "sacred”  rights  of  the  hoboes  were  so  completely  dis¬ 
regarded  that  when  there  was  no  employment  for  road 
builders  in  one  section,  they  would  be  shipped  where  they 
were  needed,  and  where  the  catching  of  hoboes  had  become 
such  an  all  around  profitable  business,  that  even  now  the 
police  were  unable  to  supply  the  pressing  demand  for 
vagrants. 

Although  I  allowed  Conchy  to  believe  that  I  appreciat¬ 
ed  his  counseling,  I  was  interested  in  his  tale  of  woe  in 
reality  only  insofar  as  it  furnished  information ‘that  would 
help  me  to  avoid  similar  man  traps.  In  every  other  respect 
I  discounted  his  warnings  on  the  principle  that  a  scorched 
child  ever  afterward  is  sure  to  fear  fire. 

That  night  while  I  slept  in  the  bunk,  one  that  hap¬ 
pened  to  be  the  topmost  of  a  tier  of  five,  a  nightmare  made 
me  believe  that  I  was  toiling  on  a  convict  gang  of  the  kind 
the  inner  workings  of  which  Conchy  had  persisted  to  por¬ 
tray  in  lurid  colors  up  to  the  moment  we  turned  in  for  the 
night.  While  under  the  supervision  of  shotgun  guards, 
grabbing  and  pick-hoeing  a  highway,  I  essayed  to  make  a 
gefaway  from  bondage.  My  dreamland  break  for  liberty 
succeeded  so  famously,  that  I  tumbled  headlong  from  the 
next-to-the-ceiling  berth  to  the  bare  board  floor  of  the  hobo 
sty.  Fortunately,  the  accident  did  not  result  in  fractured 
bones  and  after  a  bit  of  squalling  and  a  lot  of  squabbling 
with  fellows  whom  the  racket  had  roused  from  their  slumber, 

I  crawled  back  into  my  bunk  where  when  I  had  made  use 
of  my  suspenders  to  fasten  myself  to  the  berth,  I  resumed 
my  interrupted  slumber. 


100 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


In  the  morning  vari-colored  bruises  recalled  the  inci¬ 
dents  of  the  nightmare  and  set  me  to  reviewing  the  happen’ 
ings  since  I  landed  in  Buffalo  and  as  ell  tramps  are  prone 
to  superstition,  I  concluded  that  as  omens  presaged  an 
unfavorable  outcome  to  a  passage  through  Georgia,  I  would 
spend  the  coming'winter  season  in  the  north. 

Well  aware  that  ere  many  days  climatic  limitations 
would  end  hoboing,  even  that  within  closed  box  cars,  I 
selected  New  York  City  to  be  my  winter  headquarters. 
Thence  I  hoboed  from  Buffalo  and  there  found  several 
hundred  thousand  professional  mendicants  of  local  origin. 
This  army  of  beggars  was  vastly  augmented  by  an  even 
more  numerous  horde  of  vagabonds  and  out-of-works,  who 
soon  after  the  fall  of  the  first  snow  came  flocking  into  the 
metropolis  to  scurry  to  shelter  from  the  wintery  weather. 

Giving  full  credit  to  local  conditions,  I  adapted  myself 
surprisingly  quick  to  the  begging  game  as  it  is  worked  in  a 
large  city.  This  was  some  achievement  as  I  had  to  compete 
with  well  above  a  half  a  million  of  humans  who  from  the 
aristocratic,  suavely  spoken  grafters  connected  with  an 
endless  variety  of  professional  begging  societies  down  to  the 
lowliest  of  the  Bowery  bums  depended  for  an  existence, 
not  on  honest  endeavor,  but  on  the  donations  which  in  a 
vast  majority  of  cases  had  been  unwillingly  contributed  by 
citizens,  and  which  gifts  in  almost  every  instance  were  dis¬ 
pensed  with  an  even  more  lamentable  disregard  of  the 
tenets  of  charity. 

Whenever  alms  culled  from  the  passers-by  in  the 
thoroughfares  allowed  this  luxury,  I  lodged  at  one  of  the 
ultra-fashionable  Mills  Hotels.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
business  v/as  poor,  I  kipped  at  one  of  the  numerous  “seven 
cent”  dumps  which  lined  the  Bowery  and  the  byways  of 
the  lower  east  side  of  the  city.  For  provender  I  visited 
dram  shops  maintaining  lunch  counters  where  patrons,  to 
stimulate  their  thirst  for  rum,  were  provided,  free  of  charge, 
with  highly  seasoned  food.  When  in  need  of  diversion,  I 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


101 


called  at  missions,  libraries  and  other  well  appointed  hang¬ 
outs  where  vagrants  were  made  welcome.  In  many  other 
ways,  I  carefully  copied  the  precepts  of  the  city  bums  who 
I  watched  plying  the  tricks  of  their  profession. 

Then  came  the  first  of  the  blizzards.  In  all  my  living 
days  I  had  never  faced  anything  equaling  for  outright  dis¬ 
comfort  the  snow  storm  which  broke  over  Manhattan  Island. 
A  hurricane  traveling  straight  from  the  arctic  regions 
swept  into  the  wide  mouth  of  the  funnel  formed  by  Long 
Island  Sound,  whence  it  howled,  developing  an  almost 
inconceivable  fury,  through  the  narrow  canyons  betwixt 
the  towering  skyscrapers  of  the  city.  Soon  drifts  of  snow 
blockaded  the  streets  and  with  a  temperature  toeing  the 
zero  mark,  it  was  little  wonder  that  the  public  kept  in¬ 
doors,  thus  effectively  closing  the  principal  source  of  revenue 
of  all  who  heretofore  had  grafted  alms  in  the  thoroughfares. 

My  resolve  to  winter  in  New  York  City  received  a 
withering  jolt  when  on  complaining  of  the  severity  of  the 
weather  to  an  Old-Timer  who  at  midnight  stood  ahead  of 
me  in  the  Bowery  bread  line,  he  tried  to  console  me  with 
this  comment:  ‘‘Blimey,  fellow,  this  ain’t  nothing  to  what 
we  expects  right  after  Christmas,  and  them  blizzards  Is 
only  soft  gut  when  compared  with  the  fierce  weather  that 
blows  along  about  end  of  February  and  keeps  on  coming 
till  well  into  March.” 

Other  vagabonds  of  whom  I  made  anxious  inquiries 
confirmed  everything  I  had  heard  and  they  largely  added 
to  my  apprehension  as  to  what  was  yet  in  store  for  me, 
when  they  averred  that  sometimes  for  weeks  at  a  stretch 
snow  blockades  and  other  climatic  disturbances  completely 
put  out  of  business  every  sort  of  panhandling. 

Late  one  evening  with  the  mercury  hovering  some 
thirty  degrees  below  zero  and  after  I  had  vainly  tried  to 
scare  up  the  price  of  a  Bowery  flop,  there  came  to  me  a 
thought  that  henceforth  returned  with  evermore  telling 


102 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


effect:  “Wouldn’t  it  be  preferable  even  now  to  hobo  to, 
Florida  than  to  remain  here  to  battle  with  the  arctic  blasts, 
Jersey  Dan?”  ran  my  self-interrogatory. 

It  was  the  thought  of  the  reception  awaiting  all  tramps 
who  dared  to  further  impose  upon  the  Georgians,  that  de¬ 
terred  me  from  immediately  quitting  New  York  City  to 
brave  the  hazards  of  the  Road  incident  to  a  hobo  trip  in 
zero  weather. 

Then  along  blew  the  second  blizzard,  one  even  more 
furious  than  had  been  its  predecessor.  This  arctic  hurricane 
held  the  city  sufficiently  long  in  its  icy  embrace  to  mother 
in  my  mind  a  great  idea  which  came  to  me  while  a  detective 
I  had  braceddor  an  alms,  marched  me  to  the  “Tombs,”  the 
city  prison. 

“Why  suffer  from  the  cold,  by  starving,  and  to  top 
the  trouble,  by  getting  arrested,  when  steamers  almost 
daily  sail  from  New  York  to  tropic  ports  in  South  and  Cen¬ 
tral  America?”  I  ruminated. 

While  I  spent  the  next  ten  days  in  solitary  confinement, 
this  idea  had  ample  opportunity  to  ripen  to  maturity.  On 
the  day  of  my  discharge  from  custody,  I  visited  the  Lenox 
Library  where  I  studied  in  an  atlas  the  lay  of  the  other 
Americas.  The  longer  I  looked  through  maps  and  books 
dealing  with  travel  in  the  southern  portion  qf  the  western 
hemisphere,  the  firmer  became  my  conviction  that  for  all 
time  to  come  I  had  found  an  avenue  of  escape  from  both  — 
Georgians  and  arctic  climate. 

The  outcome  of  my  diligent  studies  was  a  decision  to 
pay  a  stowaway  visit  to  Venezuela.  In  the  spring  I  was  to 
return  to  the  states  and  hereafter  every  fall  I  intended  to 
undertake  another  ocean  trip  until  I  had  rambled  through 
all  the  republics  south  of  the  Rio  Grande,  then  I  proposed 
to  journey  to  the  tropic  and  semi- tropic  countries  of  the 
'eastern  hemisphere. 

The  project  seemed  so  favorable,  that  I  concluded  to 
put  It  into  immediate  execution.  From  the  ma^rine  columns 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


103 


of  a  newspaper,  I  learned  that  every  Wednesday  evening 
the  Red  “D”  Line  despatched  a  steamer  to  Caribbean  and 
South  Atlantic  destinations.  As  this  was  Tuesday  and  to¬ 
morrow  was  the  sailing  day  of  the  line,  I  resolved  to  take 
advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  remove  myself  from  frigid 
New  York  City. 

Collecting  provisions  until  late  in  the  afternoon  of 
Wednesday,  when  dusk  commenced  to  shroud  the  city,  I 
made  my  way  to  the  foot  of  Montague  Street,  Brooklyn, 
where  long  after  nightfall  I  arrived  at  Pier  No.  11,  the  dock 
of  the  Red  “D”  Line.  I  considered  it  quite  unnecessary 
to  have  some  one  direct  me,  as  the  noisy  confusion  incident 
to  the  approach  of  the  moment  of  sailing  of  a  large  steamer 
informed  me  where  to  find  the  liner  that  was  to  carry  me  to 
Venezuela. 

Ascending  the  gang-plank  of  the  steamer  by  mingling 
with  a  throng  of  people  who  were  rushing  aboard  to  bid 
farewell  to  friends  among  the  passengers,  and  acting  to 
make  believe  that  the  weighty  gunny  sack  I  was  lugging 
and  which  held  my  provisions  and  several  jugs  of  water, 
contained  belated  freight,  I  contrived  to  slip  into  the  freight 
hold  of  the  vessel,  where  watching  a  favorable  chance,  I 
hid  in  some  heavy  machinery.  (See  illustration,  page  97.) 

Ere  long  the  covers  were  battened  over  the  hatches 
thus  shutting  out  every  ray  of  light  from  the  deck  where  I 
lay  concealed.  Later  on  I  heard  the  wheezing  of  the  steam 
winches  as  they  hauled  aboard  the  cables  and  manilla 
ropes  with  which  the  liner  had  been  warped  to  the  wharf. 
Then  overhead  the  deep  bassed  blasts  of  the  siren  of  the 
ship  indicated  that  everything  was  in  readiness  for  leaving 
port.  And  when  there  came  to  me  the  noises  produced  by 
the  propellers  churning  the  waters  of  the  North  River,  I 
jubilated  in  the  darkness  of  my  prison,  for  I  realized  that  I 
was  safely  on  my  way  to  Venezuela. 

Terrific  gales  which  were  followed  by  an  appreciable 
lessening  of  the  oceanway,  announced  when  the  ship  had 


104 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


rounded  Cape  Hatteras,  the  storm  petrel  of  the  Atlantic 
Coast,  and  had  begun  to  furrow  the  warm  currents  of 
the  Gulf  Stream.  Henceforth  I  passed  through  a  most 
trying  period  of  monotonous  inactivity  that  I  reckoned  to 
have  run  well  into  the  weeks,  when  a  prolonged  blast  of  the 
steam  siren  announced  that  the  liner  had  arrived  off 
La  Guayra,  Venezuela,  which  was  the  first  port  of  call  made 
by  the  steamers  of  the  Red  “D”  Line  on  reaching  the  north¬ 
ern  coast  of  South  America. 

The  manoeuvering  of  a  tug  while  placing  a  pilot  aboard 
the  ship;  the  passage  of  the  vessel  through  the  turbulent 
breakers  of  a  shallow  river  bar  into  the  calm  waters  of  a 
harbor  and  the  warping  of  the  liner  to  a  dock,  were  the  final 
episodes  of  my  hoboing  to  a  foreign  shore. 

Presently  the  covers  were  lifted  off  the  hatches.  In 
the  flood  of  daylight  that  painfully  affected  my  eyes  which 
had  become  accustomed  to  darkness,  I  saw  two  negroes 
descend  into  the  hold  of  the  steamer  and  there  break  from 
the  cargo  freight  destined  to  the  local  port.  Although  I 
was  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  Spanish  was  the  national 
language  of  Venezuela,  I  was  shocked  to  hear  the  colored 
rousters  converse  in  a  broad  dialect  of  English. 

“Got  a  smoke  a’bout  yu  jeans.  Mister  Johnsing?”  one 
of  the  laborers  inquired  of  his  mate. 

“Ah  haben’t  a  bit,  Rastus!”  came  the  reply. 

“They  must  be  Jamaican  negroes  who  in  the  ports  of 
the  old  Spanish  Main  replace  natives  wherever  these  are 
incapable  or  disinclined  to  perform  manual  labor!”  I  mused, 
repeating  a  lesson  I  recalled  from  my  school  geography. 

Other  stevedores  joined  the  darkies.  Among  the  new¬ 
comers  were  several  who  though  they  belonged  to  the  white 
race,  judging  by  their  general  appearance,  had  mighty  little 
in  common  with  the  many  Spaniards  I  had  met  heretofore ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  all  bore  the  unmistakable  impress  of 
the  Irish  type.  They,  too,  as  did  all  the  workers,  conversed 
exclusively  in  English. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


105 


While  the  undivided  attention  of  the  stevedores  was 
held  by  their  tasks,  I  left  my  hiding  place.  Keeping  well 
to  the  rear  of  a  large  merchandise  case  one  of  the  laborers 
was  trucking  through  the  freight  opening  in  the  side  of 
the  liner,  hence  over  a  gang-plank  to  the  dock,  I  managed 
to  reach  the  pier  whence  I  hurried  from  the  freight  shed  to 
the  street. 

Where  I  stepped  into  the  thoroughfare  I  saw  a  sight 
that  made  my  eyes  bulge  from  their  sockets.  I  had  almost 
bumped  into  an  exact  counterpart  of  a  North  American 
policeman.  Star,  maze,  helmet,  navy  blue  uniform  and 
even  the  funny  facial  expression  denoting  an  idea  of  vast 
superiority  over  his  fellow  men,  were  reproduced  —  here  in 
a  country  fully  three  thousand  miles  to  the  south  of  Sandy 
Hook. 

/  ‘‘This  John  Law  must  be  a  descend ent  of  the  Bucca¬ 
neers,  the  seafaring  riffraff  of  all  nations,  that  in  the  days 
of  long-ago  scourged  the  Spanish  Main!”  I  reasoned  while 
I  tried  to  recall  a  smattering  of  the  Spanish  idiom  I 
had  picked  up  while  panhandling  handouts  from  Mexicans 
residing  in  the  southwestern  states. 

“Pardoneme,  amigo,”  I  bravely  stammered,  addressing 
the  officer,  “directa  me  a  la  estacion  del  ferrocannl  que  vas 
de  aqui  a  la  ciudad  de  Caracas,  la  capitale  de  esta  repub- 
lica.”* 

To  my  utmost  amazement  the  police  officer,  as  had  all 
the  natives  I  had  encountered,  spoke  the  English  tongue, 
and  what  I  heard  him  say  decided  me  to  carefully  bridle 
my  own. 

“Reckon  this  here  creature  is  another  one  of  them 
pesky  'furriners’  they  be  shipping  here  from  New  York  to 
displace  our  coons!”  savagely  muttered  the  queer  John  Law 
who  then  took  a  rough  hold  of  my  arm  and  marched  me  to 

*“Pardon  me,  friend,”  I  bravely  stammered,  “tell  me  where  to  find  the  station  of 
tlie  railroad  which  runs  from  here  to  the  city  of  Caracas,  the  capital  of  tins  repuDUc. 


106 


The  Snare  of  the  Road, 


the  steamer  I  had  just  left  and  there  halting  at  the  passen¬ 
ger  gangway,  he  hailed  a  steward  who  was  leaning  over  the 
deck  rail,  sightseeing. 

“Hy  there.  Jack!”  the  bluecoat  shouted  to  the  mariner, 
using  a  strangely  familiar  sounding  dialect  of  English,  “I 
can’t  comprehend  the  lingo  of  this  yere  ‘Eyetalian’  and 
brought  him  back  so  you  alls  can  talk  to  him.” 

“Send  him  aboard,  mate,”  replied  the  addressed, 
“maybe  we  can  accomrriodate  you.” 

By  liberally  making  use  of  a  sign  language  he  had  im¬ 
provised  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the  occasion,  the 
officer  directed  me  to  ascend  the  gang-plank.  When  I 
stepped  to  the  deck  of  the  liner,  I  was  taken  in  tow  by  the 
steward  whose  continued  silence  gave  me  the  cue,  that  he 
did  not  speak  Italian  for  which  the  John  Law  had  mistaken 
my  faulty  Spanish. 

Following  my  guide  into  the  bowels  of  the  ship,  when 
we  had  arrived  at  a  distance  beyond  the  earshot  of  the  police¬ 
man,  I  allowed  myself  to  remark:  “Seems  odd  that  these 
South  Americans  should  have  developed  a  mania  for  the 
speaking  of  the  English  language!” 

“Ain’t  you  a  dago?”  blurted  the  steward. 

“Do  they  like  the  Yankees  so  well  that  they  copy  their 
ma!nners  and  the  cut  of  their  clothes?”  I  continued  without 
taking  stock  of  his  impertinent  inquiry. 

“Instead  of  dumping  the  likes  of  you  aboard  of  our 
steamer,  the  cop  should  have  sent  you  for  observation  to 
Milledgeville  where  they  house  the  lunatics  of  Georgia!” 
excitedly  shouted  the  sea-going  flunky  who  proved  that 
my  innocent  comments  had  frightened  him  by  the  attitude 
of  instant  preparedness  against  attack  to  which  he  raised 
his  fists. 

“How  can  Georgia  be  in  Venezuela?”  I  corrected,  while 
at  the  same  time  I  recalled  that  ever  since  the  opening  of 
the  hatches  everything  seemed  to  have  gone  topsy  turvy. 


The  Simre  of  the  Road. 


107 


In  South  America  I  ran  across  a  bIu«coat. 


108 


Tlie  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“Am  I  not  aboard  the  Red  ‘D’  Liner  that  sailed  on  the 
evening  of  the  ninth  of  December  from  Pier  No.  11,  Brook¬ 
lyn?” 

“This  is  the  ‘City  of  Montgomery’  of  the  Ocean  Steam¬ 
ship  Line  plying  between  New  York  and  Savannah,  sir,” 
replied  the  steward.  “The  dock  of  our  company  is  at  Pier 
No.  35,  North  River,  but  on  account  of  a  serious  congestion 
of  freight  there,  we  were  ordered  to  take  on  a  cargo  at  Pier 
No.  11,  whence  we  sailed  on  the  evening  tlie  weekly  steamer 
of  the  Red  ‘D’  Line  left  port.” 

“It  was  my  inquiry  for  this  information  which  made 
the  policeman  believe  I  was  speaking  Italian,  sir,”  1  said 
without  a  quiver  in  my  voice  indicating  my  inward  agita¬ 
tion,  and  then  I  retraced  my  steps. 

“Some  cops  are  queer  fellows!”  tartly  observed  the 
steward  who  was  trailing  me. 

While  I  had  outwardly  simulated  profound  calmness, 
I  fairly  quaked  with  fright,  as  I  had  instantly  deduced  from 
what  the  steward  had  said,  that  I  had  made  the  vital  error 
of  hoboing  a  steamer  that  instead  of  taking  me  to  the 
Carribbean  Coast  of  South  America,  had  deposited  me 
at  Savannah,  a  port  of  the  one  country  beneath  the  vault 
of  heaven  I  had  the  best  of  reasons  to  avoid. 

Forced  by  a  play  of  misfortune  to  make  the  most  of  an 
unpleasant  predicament,  I  promptly  laid  plans  to  make  as 
quickly  as  possible  my  exit  from  the  domain  of  the  sworn 
enemies  of  trampdom.  Luck  favored  this  decision  for  when 
I  returned  to  the  promenade  deck  of  the  “City  of  Mont¬ 
gomery,”  and  furtively  glanced  over  the  side  of  the  steam¬ 
ship,  I  felt  immensely  relieved  when  I  noted  that  the  blue- 
coat  had  returned  to  his  regular  beat  in  the  streets. 

Almost  every  year  I  had  wintered  in  Georgia  or  had 
crossed  this  state  to  reach  other  destinations,  therefore  I 
had  become  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  details  of  its 
geography.  I  knew  that  at  Hardeeville  on  the  Atlantic 
Coast  Line  Railroad,  scarcely  twenty-five  miles  to  the  north 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


101 


of  Savannah,  was  South  Carolina,  a  state  the  inhabitants 
of  which  yet  meekly  put  up  with  everything  dealt  them  by 
transient  vagabonds.  If  I  wished  to  avoid  the  risk  of  com¬ 
ing  in  collision  with  the  anti-vagrancy  statutes  of  Georgia 
while  hoboing  the  railroad,  one  of  the  strictest  policed  ones 
in  the  land,  it  would  have  proven  an  easy  task  for  an  able- 
bodied  fellow,  which  I  was,  to  have  walked  the  short  distance 
to  neutral  soil  and  safety,  had  it  not  been  for  the  Savan¬ 
nah  River,  a  navigable  stream  that  formed  the  boundary  of 
’the  adjoining  states  and  which  therefore  I  had  to  cross  if 
I  followed  either  the  railroad  track  or  the  public  highway. 

Had  I  elected  to  walk  the  track,  I  would  have  found 
a  drawbridge  the  tender  in  charge  of  which  had  earned 
national  notoriety  by  having  allowed  no  tramp  tO  sneak 
over  the  bridge.  Taking  the  highway,  I  would  have  met 
aboard  the  ferryboat  that  conveyed  the  road  traffic  over 
the  river,  a  mate  who  had  never  permitted  a  ticketless 
passenger  to  cross  to  the  opposite  shore. 

Penniless  and  lacking  the  nerve  I  required  to  undertake 
in  Georgia  the  panhandling  of  passers-by  in  the  street  for 
the  price  of  a  ticket  to  Hardeeville,  either  by  train  or  ferry, 
I  decided  to  walk  to  Augusta,  a  city  located  at  the  head  of 
river  navigation  where  several  bridges  spanned  the  murky 
Savannah. 

Footing  it  from  Savannah,  I  followed  a  wagon  road 
paralleling  the  Central  of  Georgia  Railway,  a  branch  of  which 
led  from  Millen  to  Augusta.  Late  in  the  afternoon  while 
plodding  along  the  highway,  I  was  overtaken  by  a  typical 
cotton  planter  of  the  lesser  grade  who  was  driving  a  one- 
mule  wagon.  Hailing  the  farmer,  I  asked  to  be  allowed  a 
lift. 

“Be  ye  one  of  the  tramping  varmints,  sir?”  sharply 
interrogated  the  planter  while  he  eyed  me  most  suspiciously. 

“A  sailor,  sir!”  I  storied  when  the  tenor  of  his  question 
proved  the  Southerner  loathed  vagrants. 


no 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“If  that  be  the  case,  you’re  welcome  to  climb  aboard,” 
he  invited  while  he  checked  his  mule. 

When  I  had  taken  a  seat  beside  the  farmer,  he  sent  the 
mule  on  the  way.  We  had  traveled  quite  a  distance  when 
nettled  by  the  assurance  that  had  I  stated  the  truth  con¬ 
cerning  my  vocation  the  planter  who  had  given  ample 
evidence  that  his  dislike  of  strangers  was  exclusively  di¬ 
rected  toward  hoboes,  would  have  refused  me  passage  on 
his  wagon,  I  broached  a  subject  for  discussion  I  hoped  would 
reveal  the  reason  for  his  pronounced  aversion. 

“It  seems  you  do  not  approve  of  hoboes,  sir?”  I 
volunteered. 

“They  aren’t  of  no  earthly  account,  the  wandering 
beggars!”  he  gruffly  admitted,  concluding  a  theme  from 
which  I  had  promised  interesting  returns. 

Following  a  prolonged  period  of  silence,  to  call  my 
attention  to  the  really  commendable  condition  of  the  high¬ 
way,  the  Georgian  drawled:  “Ain’t  this  some  cracking 
fine  road,  sir?” 

“I  have  yet  to  see  one  to  beat  it!”  I  fawned  ever  intent 
on  remaining  in  the  good  grace  of  my  host. 

“As  straight  as  the  plumb  line  of  a  mason;  as  hard  and 
smooth  as  plate  glass,  and  just  take  a  peek  at  the  dandy 
bridging  and  guttering  is  has  got!”  shouted  the  enthusiastic 
planter  unmindful  that  his  loud  comment  was  frightening 
the  mule.  “And  would  you  believe  it  possible,  sir?  It’s 
less  than  three  years  since  this  road  was  in  such  a  terrible 
fix  that  if  I  wanted  to  reach  Savannah  in  time  to  take 
advantage  of  an  open  market,  I  had  to  leave  my  plantation 
with  this  wagon  drawn  by  a  couple  of  strong  buck  mules 
before  the  stars  quit  twinkling  overhead  and  they  were 
there  again  when  I  drove  home  from  the  city.  These  days 
with  one  mule  pulling  the  wagon  loaded  with  three  bales 
of  cotton  each  weighing  no  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  ton, 
even  on  days  when  it’s  raining  as  if  the  sluices  of  heaven  had 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


Ill 


/ 

been  left  ajar,  I  have  no  trouble  to  drive  to  town  in  a  few 
hours,  and  actually,  I  have  forgotten  what  it  feels  like  to 
have  to  choke  down  a  warmed-over  supper.” 

“It  must  have  cost  you  taxpayers  a  lot  of  money  to 
make  these  improvements?”  I  chimed  to  lead  on  the  agri¬ 
culturist  in  what  I  surmised  to  be  his  favorite  theme  of 
discussion. 


The  planter  appreciated  **Gc)od  Roads  hoboes  had  built. 


“Hardly  anything,  considering  that  before  we  tackled 
the  job  I  couldn’t  have  given  my  plantation  away,  while 
nowadays  bankers  and  other  sorts  of  money  lenders  are 
fairly  hounding  me  with  offers  to  advance  funds  with  the 
land  for  a  collateral,”  he  stated,  “and  besides,  we  have  used 
the  busted-up  highway  to  profitably  rid  ourselves  of  hoboes 
by  compelling  them  to  learn  how  to  work  for  their  living. 


112 


T  M  Snare  of  the  Road. 


‘'You  may  place  water  before  a  horse,  but  you  cannot  i 
make  him  drink!”  I  tritly  observed,  firmly  believing  that  | 

no  tramp  who  was  not  inclined  to  toil  could  be  forced  to  do  i 

■<{ 

so.  \ 

“I  happen  to  be  acquainted  with  the  superintendent  | 
in  charge  of  our  local  convict  outfit  and  he  tells  me  that  if  ] 
once  a  hobo  gets  heft  to  what’s  wanted  of  him,  he  makes  ■; 
not  only  a  most  willing  worker  but  when  Sunday  or  a  rainy  ] 
day  compels  a  suspension  of  the  work,  he’s  the  most  forlorn  \ 
looking  chap  in  the  whole  prison  camp,”  he  gleefully  as-  I 
sured  me.  ^ 

“Are  hereabouts  the  police  authorities  rough  on  I 

tramps?”  I  interrogated,  aiming  to  verify  one  of  the  con-  ; 
tentions  Conchy  Slim  had  preached.  1 

“They  certainly  are  that,  sailor,”  came  the  answer  of  i 
the  farmer,  “and  if  the  record  of  your’n  won’t  stand  a  close  ■ 
overhauling,  you  had  better  steer  clear  of  our  sheriffs  as 
they  might  mistake  you  to  be  one  of  them  rum  guzzling 
galoots  who  used  to  scare  and  insult  our  women  and  other-  . 
wise  did  everything  possible  to  make  the  countryside  an  ; 
unsafe  place  of  residence.”  i 

Our  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  sharp 
blasts  of  an  auto  horn.  The  driver  of  an  automobile  com¬ 
ing  up  in  our  rear  desired  right  of  passage  for  his  car.  The  ' 
tardiness  which  the  planter  displayed  while  turning  out  to 
make  driving  room  for  the  machine,  furnished  the  cue  that  - 
he  held  almost  as  little  love  for  autoists  than  I  knew  he  had  ' 
for  hoboes.  When  the  car  chugged  abreast  of  the  wagon  • 
and  I  noted  that  it  carried  only  one  occupant,  a  portly 
gentleman,  I  braced  him  for  a  ride. 

“Isn’t  your  wagon  traveling  sufficiently  fast  to  suit 
your  needs,  sir?”  laughed  the  automobilist,  evidently  be-  ' 
lieving  I  owned  an  interest  in  the  property  of  the 
planter. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


113 


“I  am  a  stranded  sailor  and  was  walking  to  Augusta 
when  the  owner  of  this  vehicle  picked  me  up,  sir,”  I  pro¬ 
tested,  but  even  then  the  gentleman  evinced  no  inclination 
to  accept  my  request. 

"I  reckon  he’s  all  right,  sir!”  interjected  the  farmer, 
seconding  ray  plea.  “I  didn’t  mind  giving  him  a  friendly 
boost.” 

“If  that’s  the  case,  you  may  travel  with  me  to  Millen 
which  is  better  than  half  way  from  here  to  your  destination, 
sir,”  offered  the  stranger  while  he  stopped  his  car. 

My  transfer  from  the  wagon  to  the  automobile  was 
soon  accomplished  and  ere  long  the  machine  was  whizzing 
westward  at  a  fair  rate  of  speed.  Some  miles  beyond  the 
point  where  he  had  taken  me  aboard,  the  autoist  revealed 
the  reason  he  had  acted  so  chary  ere  halting  his  car. 

“I  had  never  denied  a  ride  to  anyone  asking  for  this 
favor,  sir,”  he  explained,  “but  in  all  my  days  I  shall  never 
again  extend  this  privilege  to  a  hobo  since  the  last  roving 
beggar  I  allowed  to  travel  in  my  automobile  proved  the 
average  standard  of  character  of  his  kind  by  abstracting 
a  wallet  from  one  of  my  coat  pockets  while,  so  he  thought, 
my  attention  was  focussed  on  the  guiding  of  the  machine.” 

“That’s  what  I  would  call  rewarding  a  charity  with 
brutal  ingratitude,  sir,”  I  admitted,  while  at  the  same  time 
I  remembered  many  instances  where  fellow  tramps  who  I 
had  previously  assisted  repaid  my  kindness  while  I  was 
sleeping  by  stripping  ihy  feet  of  shoewear  and  by  enacting 
other  tricks  only  perverted  intellects  could  have  concocted. 

‘T  am  Banker  Emerson  of  Millen  and  Savannah,  sir, 
my  latest  host  introduced  himself.  “In  the  last  mentioned 
city  I  am  connected  with  the  management  of  one  of  the 
leading  banking  institutions.  Some  years  ago  close  atten¬ 
tion  to  my  sedentary  occupation  impaired  my  health  to 
such  an  extent  that  specialists  I  consulted  prescribed  an 
outdoor  existence.  This  prescription  brought  in  its  wake 


114 


The  Sruire  of  the  Road. 


the  removal  of  my  family  to  Millen  from  whence  I  motor 
every  morning  to  my  bank  and  return  home  after  close  of 
business. 

‘^One  4ciy  while  I  was  en  route  from  Savannah,  I  had 
the  pleasure  I  used  to  derive  from  the  assisting  of  my  fellow 
men,  effectively  spoiled  by  the  rascal  who  stole  the  wallet 
containing  valuable  papers  I  was  taking  home  for  perusal. 
Fearing  a  murderous  attack,  I  held  my  peace  until  I  stopped 
the  car  in  front  of  the  Millen  police  station  where  I  had 
officers  take  charge  of  the  thief.  He  settled  well  for  his 
crime,  insofar  as  I  was  concerned  in  its  atonement.  For  a 
solid  year  he  was  forced  to  donate  his  labor  towards  keep¬ 
ing  this  highway  in  repair  and  so  did  his  share  to  appreci¬ 
ably  reduce  my  annual  outlay  for  oils,  gasolene,  auto  re¬ 
pairs,  not  to  mention  the  compensations  I  used  to  pay  to 
teamsters  who  now  and  anon  had  to  be  called  in  to  drag 
my  machine  from  mud  and  quicksand  sinks  in  the  road  and 
from  holes  in  the  floors  of  poorly  constructed  bridges.” 

Henceforward  our  conversation  lagged  as  I  failed  to  rid 
myself  of  a  vague  suspicion  that  on  our  arrival  at  Millen 
the  banker  might  repeat  the  tactics  he  had  followed  in  the 
case  of  the  thieving  scoundrel  by  turning  me  over  to  the 
police  for  an  investigation  of  my  antecedents.  Fortunately, 
my  fears  proved  to  be  baseless.  He  halted  the  car  at  his 
palatial  mansion  and  then  inviting  me  to  step  around  the 
house  to  its  rear  entrance,  he  provided  me  with  an  ample 
supper.  While  I  finished  the  meal  Mr.  Emerson  came  into 
the  kitchen!  Handing  me  one  of  his  calling  cards,  he 
advised  that  should  a  local  representative  of  the  law  inter¬ 
fere  with  my  person  while  in  Millen,  I  was  to  present  the 
card  and  if  this  proved  insufficient  to  protect  me  against 
arrest,  I  was  to  direct  the  troublesome  party  to  telephone 
for  instructions  to  the  banker. 

In  high  spirits  I  left  the  home  of  the  Southerner  whose 
latest  kindness  made  it  certain  that  for  the  time-being  my 
liberty  would  be  safeguarded  in  Millen  better*  than  anywhere 


Th&  Snare  of  the  Rogd. 


115 


else  in  the  state  of  Georgia.  For  this  reason  I  decided  to 
remain  in  town  overnight  and  continue  my  foot  journey  to 
Augusta  in  the  morning.  While  hunting  for  a  lodging  place, 
I  strayed  to  the  station  of  the  Central  of  Georgia  Railway, 
where  I  made  the  welcome  discovery  that  a  door  of  the 
waiting  room  had  been  left  unlocked.  I  cautiously  opened 
this  door,  entered  the  dark  waiting  room  and  there  groped 
until  I  found  a  bench  of  which  I  made  a  bunk. 


The  “Night  Hawk  of  Millen”  routed  Jersey  Bill. 

The  penetrating  rays  of  a  flash  lantern  roused  me  from 
my  slumber.  Guided  by  many  similar  experiences  I  had 
encountered,  I  realized  even  before  I  opened  my  eye  lids, 
that  I  had  run  afoul  of  the  law.  Sure  enough,  a  watchman 
placed  me  under  arrest  on  a  charge  of  trespass  and  then 
searched  my  belongings  for  concealed  weapons. 


116 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


"I  catch  most  of  my  hoboes  by  simply  leaving  a  door 
of  this  waiting  room  unfastened,  sir!”  jeered  the  John  Law, 
^vhen  he  had  finished  his  futile  search  for  contraband 
articles. 

“The  chilly  night  air  makes  a  first  rate  hobo  trap  of  any 
warm  waiting  room  a  door  of  which  has  purposely  been  left 
ajar!”  I  crankily  opined,  feeling  much  out  of  sorts  at  having 
been  so  neatly  snared  by  the  town  guard. 

“Justice  Hawkins  hands  to  lads  following  your  calling 
never  less  than  a  solid  year  at  hard  labor  with  our  convict 
road  building  outfit,”  consoled  the  grinning  night  watch, 
continuing  his  theme,  “and  I  know  by  the  fact  that  I  still 
have  to  catch  one  of  your  kind  a  second  time,  that  the  good 
judge  is  doing  great  work  in  behalf  of  suffering  society.*' 

The  pride  displayed  by  the  watchman  at  having  lent 
a  helping  hand  with  the  recruiting  for  the  chaingang  at  the 
expense  of  the  hoboes,  aroused  me  to  my  peril.  It  had  the 
effect  to  recall  to  my  drowsy  intellect  that  for  the  better 
security  against  loss  which  this  hiding  place  afforded,  I 
had  placed  in  the  sweat  band  of  my  hat  the  card  Mr. 
Emerson  had  presented  to  me  for  use  in  just  this  kind  of 
emergency.  I  deftly  lifted  the  pasteboard  from  its  retreat 
and  handed  it  to  the  night  guard  who  deciphered  its  d  escrip- 
tion  by  the  light  of  his  lantern. 

“Are  you  acquainted  with  Banker  Emerson,  sir?’* 
sharply  asked  the  policeman,  while  he  returned  the  calling 
card  to  my  keeping. 

“I  came  with  him  in  his  automobile  from  Savannah  and 
ate  my  supper  at  his  residence,”  I  informed  my  custodian, 
“and  if  you  doubt  my  statement  you’re  welcome  to  call 
up  Mr.  Emerson  on  the  telephone.” 

“If  Banker  Emerson  is  your  friend,  you  are  not  a  hobo, 
sir,”  philosophized  the  officer,  “therefore  you  may  consider 
yourself  at  liberty.” 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


117 


“You’re  an  astute  judge  of  human  nature  for  I  am  a 
shipwrecked  sailor,  sir,”  I  fawned,  hoping  that  this  flattery 
would  divert  the  trend  of  his  thoughts  to  a  subject  fraught 
with  less  threatening  possibilities  for  my  personal  safety. 

The  stand-by  that  twice  within  a  day  had  proven  its 
worth  was  but  partially  successful  in  this  instancer  In  the 
heyday  of  his  life  the  watchman  had  followed  steamboating 
on  the  Ashpoo,  Pee-Dee,  Santee,  Yemassee  and  others  of 
the  numerous  navigable  rivers  draining  the  southeastern 
states.  When  for  some  time  we  had  pleasantly  chatted  of 
matters  connected  with  the  working  aboard  of  ships,  he 
abruptly  returned  to  the  subject  I  wished  to  avoid. 

“Did  your  friend.  Banker  Emerson,  tell  you  how  a 
year  ago  last  fall  a  crooked  hobo  tried  to  relieve  him  of  a 
wallet?”  the  officer  led  off. 

“How  did  it  happen,  sir?”  I  blandly  queried,  preferring 
for  obvious  reasons  to  feign  total  ignorance  of  the  affair. 

The  talkative  town  guard  not  only  repeated  the  par¬ 
ticulars  of  the  crime  I  had  received  at  first  hand,  but  also 
mentioned  details  which  proved  most  amazing. 

,  “All  my  living  days  I  have  strenuously  opposed  the 
hasty  penalizing  of  hoboes,  sir,”  he  continued  when  he  had 
related  all  Mr.  Emerson  had  revealed,  “as  sometimes 
deserving  out-of-works  who  should  have  received  protec¬ 
tion,  are  liable  to  be  railroaded  to  servitude  on  the  highwa)^. 
On  this  occasion  Judge  Hawkins  could  see  no  valid  reason 
why  the  court  should  make  haste  slowly  and  wait  on  an 
invectigation  of  the  record  of  a  culprit  who  humbly  pleaded 
to  be  punished  for  his  transgression.  My  objections  were 
overruled  and  the  scoundrel  who  had  taken  improper  ad- 
antage  of  Mr.  Emerson  was  given  the  lenient  penalty  the 
magistrate  usually  assessed  against  common  vagabonds. 

“The  fact  that  the  fellow  had  foiled  my  plans,  made  m« 
all  the  more  anxious  to  get  hold  of  his  correct  pedigree. 
With  this  purpose  in  view,  I  had  postal  cards  printed  show¬ 
ing  a  likene.ss  of  the  convict,  his  Bertillon  msasurements, 


118 


Tha  Snare  of  the  Road. 


a  brief  outline  of  his  personal  characteristics  and  ending 
.with  an  urgent  request  for  information.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  days  my  suspicions  that  our  penitently  acting. prisoner 
wasn’t  quite  as  innocent  as  he  had  made  the  good  judge 
believe,  were  fully  confirmed  when  letters  and  postals 
galore  began  to  arrive  at  police  headquarters  announcing 
that  we  held  in  custody  one  of  the  most  dangerous  of  hobo 
desperadoes. 

“When  I  confronted  the  rascal  with  his  criminal  record 
he  had  the  cheek  to  laugh  me  full  in  the  face  while  he  in¬ 
quired  if  we  of  the  police  expected  him  and  his  kind  to  pro¬ 
vide  themselves  with  a  day  book  in  which  had  been  entered 
a  duly  attested  account  of  their  criminal  transactions. 

“But  I  got  even  with  the  tricky  crook!”  gleefully  cried 
th«  trapper  of  tramps.  “In  Georgia  every  prisoner  employed 
on  works  of  public  welfare  is  rewarded  for  examplary  be¬ 
havior  with  a  commutation  of  one-fourth  his  prison  term. 
I  made  it  an  obligation  to  have  the  court  suspend  this 
privilege  in  the  case  of  ‘Conchy  Slim’!” 

“Conchy  Slim!”  I  echoed,  unable  to  control  my  aston¬ 
ishment  to  hear  a  tramp  denounced  who  among  his  fellows 
was  rated  to  be  a  harmless  hobo,  but  when  I  took  note 
that  my  ill  timed  exclamation  had  roused  the  suspicion 
of  the  John  Law,  I  quickly  added,  “if  that  isn’t  some 
queer  sort  of  a  name!” 

“That’s  what  it  is,  sailor!”  agreed  the  watchman  who 
then  resumed  the  narrative.  “Ere  Conchy  Slim  took  his 
departure  from  the  chaingang,  he  sent  word  by  a  trustee, 
that  though  it  would  take  him  all  his  days,  he  would  even 
the  score  for  my  having  been  instrumental  for  keeping  him 
in  Georgia  three  months  longer  than  he  deserved.  Since 
then  I  have  been  waiting  for  him  to  make  good  his  promise 
but  have  cause  to  suspect  that  he’s  going  to  slight  me  as  did 
the  other  hoboes  who  made  dire  threats  but  never  allowed 
me  a  sesond  chance  to  catch  sight  of  them  in  Millen.” 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


'  119 


The  whistling  of  an  incoming  train  ended  our  conversa¬ 
tion.  Saying  that  it  was  the  midnight  freight  bound  for 
Augusta,  the  night  watch  hurried  from  the  waiting  room 
to  hunt  through  the  cars  for  trespassers.  He  had  not 
returned  when  the  freight  began  to  leave  the  station. 
Stepping  to  the  platform,  I  watched  the  passage  of  the 
cars.  Just  then  I  recalled  that  only  fifty-four  miles  in 
the  direction  of  the  departing  train  lay  the  state  of 
South  Carolina,  the  “Promised  Land”  of  every  hobo 
marooned  in  Georgia. 

The  passing  of  a  box  car  with  a  door  standing  ajar 
'  aroused  me  from  my  thoughts,  when  I  noted  that  the  car 
was  loaded  with  “Pittsburgh  Feathers”  above  which  and 
below  the  rafters  of  the  car  had  been  left,  by  chance,  a 
space  of  sufficient  size  to  allow  a  hobo  to  squeeze  himself 
indoors.  Throwing  caution  to  the  four  winds,  I  ran  to  the 
side  of  the  car,  swung  aboard  and  crawled  into  the  vacant 
space  which  I  barricaded  with  chunks  of  the  rough  coke. 
Without  interference  I  traveled  to  Augusta  and  when  the 
red  aurora  of  the  rising  sun  flamed  above  the  horizon,  I 
had  crossed  into  neutral  South  Carolina  by  way  of  one  of 
the  bridges  spanning  the  Savainnah. 

Hoboing  northward,  the  ever  increasing  frigidity  of 
the  weather  retarded  my  progress  so  that  it  was  middle  of 
March  ere  I  arrived  in  the  section  of  the  states  from  where 
the  blizzards  had  driven  me.  On  my  way  and  ever  after¬ 
ward  I  tried  by  every  means  at  the  command  of  the  Breth¬ 
ren  of  the  Road  to  get  in  touch  with  Conchy  Slim,  as  I 
fairly  ached  for  the  chance  to  recount  to  him  the  re¬ 
markable  events  1  had  encountered  since  we  met  in  the 
Buffalo  hobo  sty. 

Only  last  summer  I  ran  across  the  man  I  had  combed 
the  continent  to  find.  Panhandling  passers-by  in  the  streets 
of  Des  Moines  for  the  price  of  a  meal,  I  met  with  no  response 
to  my  appeals  as  the  thoroughfares  of  Iowa’s  capital  had 
been  worked  to  a  frazzle  by  consecutive  generations  of 


120 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


impudent  beggars.  Then  tliere  came  into  view  a  gentleman 
who  was  pushing  a  baby  carriage  by  the  side  of  which  strode 
a  richly  dressed  lady  who  by  her  proud  beaming  at  the 
infant  occupying  the  perambulator,  readily  proved  to  be 
the  child’s  doting  mother. 

“Here  comes  my  fall-guy!”  I  mused,  practical  experi¬ 
ence  having  taught  vagrantdom  that  a  citizen  of  prosperous 
appearance  when  in  company  of  a  lady  will  rarely  ever 
refuse  a  plea  for  financial  aid. 

“Pardon  me,  friend,”  I  whined,  when  on  accosting  him 
the  guardian  of  the  baby  buggy  had  halted.  “Can  you  aid 
a  starving  fellow  with  a  nickel?” 

The  stranger  accepted  my  appeal,  but  while  he  fumbled 
through  his  pockets  for  a  coin,  I  noted  with  discomfort  that 
his  eyes  were  sharply  searching  my  countenance. 

“Aren’t  you  Jersey  Dan?”  he  suddenly  asked,  using 
imperative  language. 

“That’s  who  I  am,  sir!”  I  crestfallen  whimpered,  believ¬ 
ing  that  the  police  of  Des  Moines  by  pushing  a  perambulator 
containing  a  live  infant  ahead  of  them  while  patroling  the 
streets,  had  concocted  a  novel  scheme  to  catch  bummers 
off  their  guard. 

Instead  of  taking  charge  of  me,  the  gent  fairly  shouted: 
**Have  I  changed  so  greatly  that  you  failed  to  recognize 
your  friend  ‘Conchy  Slim’?” 

Only  when  I  had  assured  myself  beyond  a  possible 
chance  of  committing  a  blunder  that  he  who  had  spoken 
bore  the  features  of  the  notorious  cnminal,  I  ejaculated: 
“Sure  enough!  It’s  Conchy  Slim!” 

When  we  had  exchanged  greetings,  he  introduced  me 
to  the  lady  who,  as  I  had  surmised,  was  his  wife.  Then 
Conchy  urged  me  to  accept  a  coin  of  large  denomination, 
but  I  declined  to  touch  the  money  as  it  was  against  the 
ethics  of  the  Road  for  a  “proper”  tramp  to  receive  an  alms 
from  a  fellow  hobo.  However,  when  both  he  and  his  better- 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


121 


half,  insisted  that  I  accompany  them  to  their  home  and 
there  join  them  at  supper,  I  did  not  have  the  heart  to  refuse 
their  invitation. 

While  we  were  on  our  way,  I  contrived  to  whisper  to 
Conchy  that  I  would  like  to  speak  to  him  of  matters  I 
would  not  want  his  wife  to  hear.  This  request  resulted  in 
his  turning  over  the  care  of  the  baby  to  his  spouse  and  when 
the  had  trundled  on  ahead  to  a  distance  sufficient  to  withhold 


Bracing  a  “fall  guy.” 


our  secrets  from  her  knowledge,  we  fell  to  recounting  ex¬ 
periences  we  had  encountered  since  we  visited  with  each 
other  at  Buffalo. 

Conchy  related  how  he  had  met,  wooed  and  won  the 
girl  who  became  his  wife.  I  furnished  a  detailed  account 
of  the  stowaway  ocean  trip  that  had  so  oddly  deposited  me 
in  Georgia  and  described  the  incidents  of  the  eventful  auto 


122 


Th&  Snare  of  the  Road. 

ride  from  Savannah  to  Millen.  Then  I  remembered, 
that  I  still  carried  the  banker’s  calling  card  which 
I  had  frequently  used  to  convince  hoboes  who  had  doubted 
my  statements,  that  it  would  be  best  for  them  to  beware 
of  Georgia. 

When  I  handed  the  visiting  card  to  Conchy  Slim  so  he 
could  read  its  address,  I  remarked:  “Banker  Emerson  and 
the  night  guard  of  Millen  have  supplied  me  with  a  complete 
record  of  your  criminal  defections  and  you  certainly  have 
pulled  the  wool  over  the  eyes  of — ”  I  stopped  short  in 
the  sentence  for  I  noted  that  Conchy’s  ruddy  complexion 
in  a  ti'ice  had  given  way  to  the  ashen  pallor  which  comes 
with  mortal  fear,  and  having 'heard  of  criminals  who  kept 
their  dependents  in  dense  ignorance  as  to  the  true  character 
of  their  vocation,  in  the  belief  that  this  crook  was  working 
this  scheme  for  the  benefit  of  his  loved  ones,  I  quietly 
continued,  “which  facts  because  of  your  present  relation¬ 
ship  are  best  left  unmentioned.” 

“You’re  a  square  guy,  and  believe  me,  there  aren’t 
many  like  you  running  loose  over  the  land,  Dan!”  Conchy 
Slim  assured  me  while  he  reached  out  his  hand  and  then 
pressed  mine  to  express  his  silent  appreciation  of  the  course 
I  had  volunteered  to  follow  in  his  behalf. 

We  soon  had  become  so  interested  in  other,  but  less 
explosive  bits  of  Road  gossip,  ere  I  realized  that  we  had 
arrived  at  our  destination,  we  stood  before  Conchy’s  resi¬ 
dence,  a  cosy  brick  bungalow  which,  so  he  proudly  advised 
me,  had  been  built  to  his  especial  order. 

On  entering  the  home,  I  was  agreeably  surprised  to 
note  that  its  furnishings  and  other  fittings  bore  the  hall¬ 
mark  of  refinement,  a  fact  that  evinced  a  commendable 
desire  on  the  part  of  the  criminal  to  comfortably  house  his 
little  family. 

Although  my  curiosity  mounted  high  to  have  Conchy 
Sliih  repeat  to  me  the  history  of  the  criminal  exploit  that 
had  provided  the  funds  which  had  enabled  him  to  purchase 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


123 


his  home  with  its  costly  contents,  I  hesitated  to  broach  this 
subject  as  I  feared  that  my  host  would  point  blank  refuse 
to  incriminate  himself  and  most  likely  would  insist  that  I 
refrain  from  meddling  with  his  private  affairs. 

While  we  were  at  supper  a  most  singular  notion  obsessed 
the  crook.  He  demanded  that  instead  of -addressing  him 
with  “Mister,”  I  should  use  his  hobo  moniker  “Conchy 
Slim.”  As  his  wife  was  present,  I  looked  askance  at  this 
demand,  and  when  he  persisted,  I  tried  to  ignore  the  quetr 
request. 

“Don’t  fear  that  a  compliance  with  my  husband's 
wish  will  offend  me  in  the  least,  sir,”  smiled  my  hostess  who 
had  noted  my  embarrassment.  “Ere  Conchy  Slim  asked 
my  hand  in  marriage,  he  frankly  reviewed  for  my  enlight- 
ment  every  phase  of  ,his  checkered  career.  While  I  fully 
disapproved  of  the  unlawful  methods  he  had  employed, 
now  that  he  had  reformed,  I  accepted  hini  without  reserva¬ 
tion  as  I  preferred,  by  far,  to  be  the  helpmeet  of  a  man  who 
had  vanquished  the  Road,  than  to  cast  my  lot  with  some 
one  who  almost  any  day  might  fall  its  prey.” 

“Did  you  say  that  your  husband  has  settled  down  — 
quit  the  roving  life,  madam?”  I  recapitulated  to  insure  my 
ears  had  correctly  caught  her  words,  and  when  she  nodded 
her  head  in  affirmation  of  her  statement,  turning  to  her 
husband,  I  blurted:  “Have  I  erred  when  I  suspicioned  that 
you  had  come  in  possession  of  your  property  by  illegal 
means?” 

“It  depends  from  which  point  of  view  one  sizes  up  the 
deal,  Dan,”  laughed  Conchy  Slim.  “But  you  can  rest 
assured  that  everything  I  have  accomplished  since  you  and 
I  bunked  in  the  hobo  dump,  may  easily  be  duplicated  by  any 
able-bodied  tramp,  provided  he  deliberately  bums  trains 
about  Georgia  until  they  treat  him  to  a  term  with  a  road 
building  crew,  where  while  studying  a  useful  trade  he  also 
would  assimilate  a  hankering  for  the  virtues  of  industry 
and  sobriety  that  wUf  prove  of  incalculable  worth  when  on 


124  The  Snare  ef  ths  Road,  ^ 

returning  north  he  takes  hold  of  one  of  the  many  opporttl- 
nities  to  practically  apply  the  knowledge  he  had  so  cheaply . 
acquired.” 

“You  don’t  say!”  I  cried  all  agog  to  hear  it  averred  that 
it  was  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  to  wring  prosperity 
from  a  punishmejit  hoboes  considered  the  acme  of  mii- 
fortune. 

Instead  of  making  a  further  comment,  Conchy  Slim 
lifted  from  a  tray  standing  nearby  upon  a  table,  a  business 
card  which  he  handed  to  me  for  perusal. 


/  ' 

JOHN  D.  YEGGDONE 
Highway  Engineer 

Des  Moines,  Ia. 


read  the  address  on  the  card,  one  which  furnished  me  with 
the  clue  why  Conchy  Slim  had  become  an  ardent  advocate 
of  the  Georgian  scheme  by  the  application  of  which,  foul 
and  sloven  vagrancy  was  converted  into  an  almost  invalu¬ 
able  asset  of  common  welfare,  a  method  he  once  had  de¬ 
nounced  with  an  even  greater  fervor.  But  ere  I  could 
question  him  in  regard  to  this  strange  transition,  he  fore¬ 
stalled  my  intention  by  voluntarily  giving  a  review  of  the 
causes  which  led  to  his  change  of  mind. 

Returning  from  Georgia  he  had  resumed  his  yegglng, 
but  it  did  not  take  long  for  him  to  convince  himself  that 


The  Snare  of  the  Kjjad. 


12S 

the  year  he  had  unwillingly  devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  hard 
labor,  had  totally  unfitted  him  for  a  resumption  of  his 
former  outlaw^  existence.  With  no  other  avenue  left 
open,  unless  he  desired  to  descend  to  the  level  of  a  common 
stew  bum,  one  who  warmed  up  handouts  in  castaway  tin 
cans,  he  took  a  fling  at  the  straight  but  narrow  path. 

As  it  was  the  case  with  the  majority  of  transient  vaga¬ 
bonds,  so  Conchy  had  left  his  good  folks  ere  he  had  mastered 
a  useful  vocation.  Although  he  found  himself  enormously 
handicapped  by  this  lack  of  a  trade  and  also  by  the  constant 
strain  brought  on  by  the  soul  harrying  uncertainty  of  never 
knowing  at  which  moment  some  former  associate  in  crime 
might  recognize  him,  either  to  blackmail  him  or  denounce 
him  to  the  authorities,  he  steadfastly  persevered  in  his  new 
ideals. 

One  day  a  chance  came  his  way  to  practically  demon¬ 
strate  his  knowledge  of  the  construction  of  standard  high¬ 
ways.  Profiting  by  this  almost  insignificant  proof  of  his 
capability,  he  branched  out  until  his  services  were  so  sought 
after  that  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  he  became  the  foremost 
road  contractor  of  the  middle  west. 

“If  in  your  roving  you  should  drift  again  to  Millen, 
Dan,"  said  Conchy  Slim,  concluding  the  story  of  his  success, 
“be  sure  to  convey  my  sincere  compliments  to  the  night 
hawk  I  have  to  thank  that  the  master  highway  builders  of 
Georgia  donated  to  me  an  extra  three  months  of  careful  train¬ 
ing  in  my  present  honorable  vocation.  Tell  him  I  am  having 
the  revenge  I  promised  him  in  settlement  of  his,  then  little- 
appreciated  service  by  taking  as  many  hoboes  into  my 
employ  as  I  can  induce  to  remain  with  me,  and  say,  that 
besides  the  many  who  have  reformed,  there  are  at  the 
present  sixteen  others  with  me  who  will  never  straighten 
the  kinks  of  the  roads  of  Jenkins  County,  Georgia,  as  I 
pay  them  fair  wages,  treat  them  humanely,  and  what's 
worth  most,  teach  them  a  profession  that  is  one  of  the  few 
nowadays  not  overcrowded.” 


126 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


Late  at  night  I  left  Des  Moines  bound  for  Omaha  and 
the  West  via  the  Rock  Island  Lines.  Along  with  me  went 
a  commission  Mr.  Yeggdone  had  conferred  on  me  when  I 
bade  farewell  to  him  and  his  faithful  wife, 

‘'Should  you  run  across  tramps  who  act  as  if  they  were 
yearning  for  a  helping  hand  to  drag  them  from  the  dismal 
abyss  which  separates  honest  endeavor  with  its  countless 
blessings  from  the  Road  with  its  endless  ruin,  Jersey  Dan,” 
he  softly  said,  “tell  them  that  Conchy  Slim  after  everything 
he  has  passed  through,  has  become  firmly  convinced  that  in 
the  long  run  it  would  be  a  great  deal  more  profitable  to 
them  to  accept  employment  with  a  friend  who  has  their 
best  interests  at  heart,  than  to  hobo  onward  until  they  will 
be  made  to  do  so  under  stem  compulsion  by  the  police.” 

Since  then  to  tramps  with  whom  the  Road  threw  me 
into  contact,  I  have  narrated  a  story  based  on  the  curious 
culmination  of  the  hobo  career  of  the  Iowan  highway 
builder.  So  often  and  with  such  an  ever  increasing  fervor 
have  I  repeated  this  sermon  on  human  life  as  it  is  in  reality, 
that  the  commission  the  ex-yegg  has  bestowed  on  me,  is 
commencing  to  prove  itself  a  veritable  boomerang.  ,One 
of  these  fine  days  I  may  be  found  facing  Mr.  Yeggdone  in- 
his  private  office  at  his  Des  Moines  headquarters,  there  to 
plead  for  a  chance  to  reform  under  the  guardianship  of  an 
ex-hobo  who  besides  purely  financial  rewards  had  gained 
so  immeasurably  much  when  he  bravely  turned  his  back 
to  the  Road. 


WITH  this  rather  frank  acknowledgment  that  he, 
too,  was  fast  approaching  a  stage  when  he  would 
be  ready  to  quit  the  thankless  wander  life,  Jer¬ 
sey  Dan  concluded  the  entertainment.  When  he  had 
been  handed  his  pay  and  had  promised  to  send  on  other 
tramping  story-tellers,  he  left  the  residence. 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


127 


Taking  prompt  advantage  of  the  favorable  impression 
he  judged  the  narrative  of  the  tramp  had  made  upon  the 
plastic  minds  of  Gerald  and  his  comrades,  Mr.  Davis, 
believing  the  proper  moment  for  this  procedure  had  arrived, 
extracted  from  each  of  the  lads  a  solemn  promise  that 
henceforth  they  would  shun  the  association  of  Bert  Coleman 
and  other  unscrupulous  scoundrels  whose  first  aim  of  life 
seemed  to  be  to  entice  boys  from  their  parents.  Then 
he  allowed  the  youths  to  de;part  for  their  homes. 


SCARCELY  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  supper,  than 
a  furious  ringing  of  the  telephone  bell  sent  Mr. 
Davis  hurrying  from  his  studies  in  the  library. 
“Can  I  immediately  get  Mr.  Davis?”  was  asked  by  an 
impatient  party  from  the  other  end  of  the  line 

“He’s  speaking,  sir!”  snarled  the  master  of  the  house, 
annoyed  by  the  unseeming  haste  of  the  caller. 

“This  is  the  chief  of  police,  sir,”  stated  the  inquirer, 
revealing  his  identity.  “We  want  you  at  headquarters  to 
look  after  the  interests  of  your  Gerald.” 

“Why  is  your  department  detaining  my  — ?”  inter¬ 
rogated  the  thoroughly  aroused  father  who  was  prevented 
from  finishing  the  question  by  the  hanging  up  of  the  re¬ 
ceiver  at  the  other  end  of  the  telephone. 

Although  Mr.  Davis  tried  by  every  means  to  be  re¬ 
connected  with  the  police  bureau,  his  efforts  were  brought 
to  naught  by  a  continual  use  of  the  party  line  by  other 
subscribers.  Unable  to  promptly  hear  further  particulars 
of  the  affair  which,  he  felt  assured,  must  have  been  a  most 
serious  offense  as  it  necessitated  the  detention  of  his  eldest 
by  the  authorides,  ,he  decided  to  hasten  to  the  police 
station  tp  personally  investigate  the  matter. 


12S  ^ 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


“It’s  a  grave  violation  of  the  law  your  Gerald  and 
several  other  lads  have  committed,  sir,”  was  the  greeting 
which  met  the  wTOught-up  Mr.  Davis  on  entering  the  private 
office  of  the  chief  of  police. 

“I  pray  that  it  is  not  one  of  a  character  which  would 
bring  in  its  wake  shame  and  disgrace  for  their  innocent 
families,  chief,”  stammered  the  frightened  father,  no  longer 
able  to  control  his  anxiety. 

“They  attacked  a  man  and  battered  him  so  mercilessly 
that  we  had  to  call  in  a  doctor  to  dress  his  injuries,”  re¬ 
ported  the  police  official. 

“Have  they  committed  an  act  of  highway  robbery, 
sir?”  inquired  Mr.  Davis  whose  countenance  had  visibly 
blanched  under  the  strain  of  the  accusation  he  had  heard 
made  against  his  son. 

“Their  crime  is  even  worse  than  the  one  you  men¬ 
tioned,  sir,”  he  was  informed  by  the  officer.  “They  assault¬ 
ed  a  citizen  and  in  accordance  wnth  their  confessions,  they 
would  have  cheerfully  murdered  him  had  it  not  been  for 
the  timely  arrival  of  one  of  our  patrolmen  W’ho  ran  to  the 
aid  of  their  helpless  victim.” 

“A  deliberate  attempt  to  coldbloodedly  murder  one 
of  our  citizens!”  hoarsely  echoed  Mr.  Davis. 

“Yes,  sir!”  shouted  the  police  official  who  then  drop¬ 
ping  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  barely  audible,  continued, 
“they  laid  out  Bert  Coleman,  the  scamp  of  whose  perni¬ 
cious  activities  you  complained  to  this  department.” 

A  further  explanation  was  abrogated  by  the  entry  into 
the  office  of  a  file  of  prisoners  who  were  guarded  by  a  detail 
of  bluecoats. 

“Wliat  awful  things  have  happened,  Gerald?”  cried 
Mr.  Davis  w'hen  he  saw  his  eldest  at  the  head  of  the  line 
of  culprits  who  were  the  same  lads  attending  the  hobo 
lectures.  “Make  a  clean  breast  of  the  charge  booked 


The  Sfuire  of  ike  Road. 


129 


s^inst  you  and  the  other  young  hot  heads,  as  perhaps  only 
a  frank  confession  might  save  you  boys  from  serving  a  term 
in  a  penal  institution." 

“When  I  left  the  house  after  supper,  sir,"  stated  young 
Davis,  obeying  his  father’s  counsel,  “I  went  to  *our’  corner 
where  I  met  the  boys  you  see  present  here.  While  we  were 
discussing  the  narrow  escape  we  had  had  from  being  induced 
to  hobo  to  the  western  harvest  fields,  an  undertaking  which, 


"Your  Gerald  committed  a  serious  trangression,  ar,” 
said  the  chief  of  police,  greeting  Mr,  Davis. 


as  you  have  so  often  warned,  almost  invariably  inocculated 
adventuresome  minors  with  the  wanderlust,  along  came 
Bert  Coleman.  True  to  the  promise  we  had  made  you  that 
we  would  never  give  to  our  tempter  another  chance  to 
poison  our  minds,  we  served  him  then  and  there  with  a 
notice  that  henceforth  his  company  would  not  be  welcomed 
by  our  crowd  of  boys. 


130 


TTte  Smr$  of  Uie  IRsmi, 


‘'Instead  of  gracefully  accepting  our  tart  invitation 
for  him  to  retire,  Coleman  insisted  that  we  reveal  to  him 
the  reasons  for  our  unfriendly  action.  So  he  would  under¬ 
stand  the  more  readily  our  position,  we  repeated  to  him  a 
gist  of  the  tramp  life  stories  we  had  heard  the  unfortunate 
outcasts  relate  in  our  parlor.  These  truthful  accounts  of 
their  disgusting  existence  which  had  so  effectively  spoiled 
his  shrewdly  laid  plans,  so  angered  him  that  in  a  burst  of 
rage  he  roundly  denounced  the  poor  fellows  whose  revela¬ 
tions  had  warned  us  against  the  Road  with  better  results, 
by  far,  than  all  the  ‘talking-to’  we  had  received  by  friends. 

“We  objected  to  his  blackguarding  our  absent  bene¬ 
factors.  He  wouldn’t  desist.  Hot  words  followed.  Then 
blows  were  exchanged.  The  next  instant  we  were  on  top 
of  Coleman  and  punishing  him  so  soundly  that  we  feel 
satisfied  we  have  hammered  from  his  mind  every  desire  to 
deceive  other  lads  in  the  way  he  had  tried  to  harm  us.  The 
scrap  was  brought  to  an  end  when  the  coward  bellowed  so 
lustily  for  mercy  that  his  frantic  yells  were  heard  by  Officer 
Randall  who  ran  to  his  assistance.  Unable  to  comprehend 
our  explanations,  the  policeman  arrested  all  who  had  a 
hand  in  the  fracas  and  then  convoyed  us  for  an  investiga¬ 
tion  to  police  headquarters.” 

“How  much  will  it  cost  to  settle  this  affair  out  of  court 
and  so  avoid  a  lot  of  publicity  unpleasant  to  the  families 
of  the  youngsters,  sir?”  asked  Mr.  Davis,  addressing  the 
chief  of  police. 

“Not  a  red  cent,  sir!”  came  the  surprising  answer. 
“Furthermore,  the  prisoners  may  consider  themselves  dis¬ 
charged  from  custody  if  they  will  agree  to  comply  with  a 
personal  request  I  desire  to  make.” 

“And  what  may  this  condition  be,  sir?”  eagerly  asked 
Gerald  Davis,  acting  a  spokesman  for  his  companions. 

“I  yffsh  to  reserve  to  myself  th#  privilege  to  be  the  first 
one  who  congratulates  you,  young  men,”  smiled  the  chief 
of  pohce  while  he  b^;an  to  shake  hands  with  the  lads,  one 


The  Snare  of  the  Bmid. 


131 


The  lads  wiped  the  stfeet  with  the  rascal. 


132 


The  Snare  of  the  Bmtd. 


after  the  other,  “for  having  downed  one  of  the  two-legged 
vipers  who  by  their  dissemination  of  untrue  accounts  are  to 
be  blamed  more  than  all  other  agencies  combined,  that  the 
United  States  and  Canada  are  face  to  face  with  the  solving 
of  a  professional  tramp  problem  of  proportions  so  huge  that 
its  equal  has  never  been  recorded  in  the  annals  of  the  human 
race.” 

When  Mr.  Davis  and  all  others  present  in  the  office 
had  emulated  his  example,  the  chief  of  police  suggested 
that  they  take  a  look  at  the  subject  of  their  common  loath¬ 
ing.  They  found  Bert  Coleman  occupying  the  bare  board 
bunk  of  a  prison  cell.  The  physician  who  attended  him  had 
so  swathed  his  swollen  features  in  cotton  bandages  that  the 
jail  warden  had  to  inform  Coleman  who  had  come  to  pay 
him  a  visit. 

didn’t  mean  to  do  any  harm  to  the  lads!”  weakly 
whined  the  fellow  who  had  lightheartedly  undertaken  to 
blast  the  careers  of  boys  who  had  blindly  trusted  him  as  a 
friend. 

“You  didn’t?”  thundered  Mr.  Davis,  when  he  heard 
this,  the  favorite  excuse  of  every  cornered  coward.  “No 
home  in  the  land  can  be  considered  properly  safeguarded 
until  the  national  government  has  made  it  impossible  for 
tramps  and  semi-hoboes  of  your  class  to  nullify  the  efforts 
of  parents  to  give  honorable  citizens  to  the  nation.” 

After  Mr.  Davis  came  the  chief  of  police  to  tell  at 
leng[th  what  was  the  exact  opinion  of  the  police  authorities 
of  hoboes  in  general  and  fellows  of  Bert  Coleman's  ilk  in 
particular. 

Returning  to  the  lobby  of  the  police  station,  they  found 
awaiting  them  the  fathers  of  nearly  all  of  the  boys  who  had 
had  an  active  part  in  the  undoing  of  Coleman.  As  Mr.  Davis 
had  done  on  receiving  his  telephone  message,  so  these  gentle¬ 
men  had  hurried  to  police  headquarters  to  ascertain  what 


The  Snare  of  the  Road. 


133 


had  happened  to  their  sons.  The  details  of  the  affair 
were  soon  explained  to  them  and  then  their  fear  was  turned 
into  a  genuine  rejoicing  that  the  enemy  of  home  and  family 
ties  had  been  placed  where,  for  the  time-being  at  least,  he 
could  do  no  further  harm. 


ON  the  following  evening  Texas  Jerry  put  in  appear¬ 
ance  at  the  Davis  home  to  fulfill  his  engagement. 
He  was  agreeably  surprised  when  he  was  handed 
double  the  amount  of  the  pay  earned  by  the  hoboes  who 
had  actually  lectured,  but  he  little  appreciated  a  curt  com¬ 
mand  which  went  with  the  free-will  offering,  that  it  was 
desired  of  him  to  keep  on  going. 

For  some  time  all  tramps  who  had  been  directed  to  the 
Davis  residence  by  others  who  previously  had  benefited 
by  the  novel  enterprise,  were  paid  for  their  trouble,  but 
when  the  continual  calling  at  the  house  by  vagranting 
strangers  had  assumed  the  proportions  of  an  annoyance 
it  was  Gerald  Davis  who  put  an  abrupt  halt  to  the  imdesir- 
able  patronage  when  he  chained  to  the  garden  gate  a  vicious 
bulldog  he  had  borrowed  for  this  purpose  and  also  posted 
a  warning  notice  within  easy  view  of  intending  hobo  visitors. 

As  a  result  of  a  popular  demand  for  his  exile,  Bert 
Coleman,  on  finishing  a  long  term  of  imprisonment  in  the 
local  workhouse,  was  driven  from  the  community  by  the 
authorities. 

Every  boy  in  town  henceforth  made  it  a  special  obliga¬ 
tion  to  search  out  runaway  lads.  Instead  of  providing  these 
weakminded  youngsters  with  food  and  treating  them  as 
heroes,  a  commonplace  mistake,  they  did  their  best  to 
induce  the  wayward  ones  to  return  to  their  proper  homes 
and  anxious  parents.  They  also  made  it  their  business  to 
ferret  out  scoundrels  who  attempted  to  duplicate  the  tactics 
Coleman  had  practiced,  and  tramps  who  had  minors 


134 


Th$  Snare  of  the  Mjooif, 


vagranting  with  them  over  the  country.  To  these  heartless 
rascals  they  meted  out  an  even  rougher  measure  of  treat¬ 
ment  that  had  proven  its  effectiveness  when  applied  at 
first  instance  on  the  person  of  Coleman. 

Parents  who  heretofore  had  thoughtlessly  permitted 
their  sons  to  loiter  on  railroad  premises,  street  comers  and 
other  favorite  loafing  places  where  they  were  constantly 
exposed  to  the  danger  of  mental  and  moral  contamination, 
saw  to  it  that  the  lads  were  provided  with  memberships  in 
a  Young  Men’s  Christian  As^ciation,  the  Boy  Scouts  and 
other  societies  praiseworthily  working  for  the  welfare  and 
the  advancement  of  the  younger  generations. 

Mrs.  Ridder,  whose  wise  counsel  had  so  wonderfully 
benefited  all  parties  concerned,  became  the  heroine  of  the 
neighborhood  and  an  object  of  grateful  esteem  by  those  she 
had  saved  from  terminating  their  lives  as  homeless  out- 
oasts —  despised  even  more  than  ever  was  Cain. 


i'-V'  r  ^ 


> 


4 


'  V 


M  '  '  . 


Where  to  Obtain  Our  Books 


To  The  Public:--’ 

You  may  purchase  our  books  of  any  news 
agent »  aboard  every  passenger  train  in 
the  United  States,  Canada,  England  and 
Australia,  carrying  a  “news  butcher  ”  At 
depot  a«d  other  news  stands  and  all  up-to- 
date  news  and  book  stores.  If  residing  far 
in  the  country,  your  store  keeper,  always 
willing  to  handsomely  add  to  nis  income, 
may  get  our  titles  for  you  by  requesting  us 
to  furnish  him  the  address  of  the  nearest 
jobber. 

To  The  Dealer:— 

The  American  News  Company  and  all  its 
branches  throughout  the  United  States  and 
Canada,  and  all  other  reliable  jobbers  from 
Halifax  to  San  Diego  and  from  Dawson  City 
to  Key  always  carry  a  complete  line 
of  our  books  in  stock. 

Dealers  should  furnish  a  fair  display  to  our 
books  and  explain  to  customers  that  their 
text  is  not  only  good  reading  but  also  that 
the  stories  are  based  on  actual  experiences 
of  the  author  who  wasted  thirty  years  on 
the  road. 

Do  not  bury  the  “A.  No.  1  Books”  on  shelves 
or  in  train  boxes,  but  give  them  a  chance  to 
prove  their  great  selling  merit.  One  copy 
sold  is  sure  to  bring  a  sale  of  the  complete 
set  to  the  reader,  so  entertaining  are  the 
stories  which  cover  every  interesting  phase 
of  tramp  life. 

Yours  respectfully, 

Erie,  Pa.  The  A.  No.  1  Publishing  Company 

U.  S.  A. 


A  List  of  the  Books 
ON  Tramp  Life 

WRITTEN  X.  n  M  ^  TRAMP 

by  MM  AX*  AUTHOR 


THE  FIRST  BOOK 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  A-No.  1 


THE  SECOND  BOOK 

HOBO-CAMP-FIRE-TALES 


THE  THIRD  BOOK 

THE  CURSE  OF  TRAMP  LIFE 


THE  FOURTH  BOOK 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  TRAMP 


THE  FIFTH  BOOK 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FEMALE  TRAMP 


THE  SIXTH  BOOK 

THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HOBO 

THE  SEVENTH  BOOK 

THE  SNARE  OF  THE  ROAD 


THE  EIGHTH  BOOK 

FROM  COAST  TO  COAST  WITH  JACK  LONDON 


THE  NINTH  BOOK 

THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  HOBOES 


THE  TENTH  BOOK 

THE  WIFE  I  WON 


The  Author  has  cWuHy  avoided  the  of  ^nytf.mar 

would  be  unfit  reading:  for  ladies  or  children. 

A  complete  set  of  these  moral  and  entertaining  books  should  b.»  n. 
every  home. 


•>  • 


